


The Naked Truth

by mad_magic



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Breathplay, Eventual Murven, F/M, Friends With Benefits, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Jealousy, Masturbation, Pining, Protective Bellamy, Roommates, Slow Burn, Smut, Team Cockroach BROTP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-10
Updated: 2019-10-06
Packaged: 2020-04-24 08:24:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 132,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19169467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mad_magic/pseuds/mad_magic
Summary: Clarke meets Bellamy Blake on the worst day of her life.She loses her dad, her boyfriend, and her apartment. She's taken in as the new girl in Murphy, Raven and Bellamy's place. Clarke just wants to recover and avoid any more heartache, but her distractingly hot roommate isn't letting that happen....The most important House Rule: No sex between roommates. Clarke and Bellamy have their own rule: Just sex, no feelings.





	1. The Naked Truth

**Author's Note:**

> Hi fam! Anyone alive after the Beliza news? Me either :'-) In Bob's words, my heart is very full. So happy for those crazy kids. 
> 
> Now back to your regularly scheduled Bellarke Angst™. This is an AU idea I've had for a while and can't wait to share with y'all. The "naked truth" phrase is from It Ends With Us by Colleen Hoover (highly recommend!) and inspired this first chapter. 
> 
> My brain has been taken over by this plot bunny, so OHLD is on hold for now, for those that are waiting. Thanks for your patience and support guys <3 
> 
> This is going to be a fun ride, so let's get started. Enjoy!

Clarke meets Bellamy Blake on the worst day of her life.

It’s the day of her father’s funeral, a bleak affair that has left her feeling more numb than heartbroken. Funerals are for the living. Particularly for her mom, Abby. Her dad never wanted his death to be acknowledged by lowering his body to a hole in the earth while the people he loved are left behind to mourn him sorrowfully.

Her dad was full of life. Vibrant, energetic. He always had a smile on, his eyes creased in the corners from it. Just weeks before his tragic death, he spun Abby around their kitchen in a silly dance until her laugh chimed off the walls.

_That’s_ how Clarke wants to remember him. She tried to tell her mother no to the funeral, no to the depressing black casket. But her mom refused to hear any of it.

Abby was numb too, but hers was self-imposed through the pills she kept swallowing. Clarke tries not to hate her. Her mom just lost the love of her life. But for every pill Abby takes to shut off her grief, she closes her daughter out, further and further.

Clarke is alone in her mourning. Alone in remembering her dad as the man he actually is— _was._

Jake Griffin’s mother, her grandmother Cece, wished to see her son in a casket, dressed in a fine suit. Cece took over the funeral arrangements for Abby, oh so generously, so the ceremony was held in a church despite Clarke’s reminders that Jake was an atheist.

_We have to pray for his soul,_ Cece insisted.

Clarke bit her tongue on her response, her eyes burning with frustrated tears. Her dad was the best man she knew. He didn’t  _need_ anyone’s prayers to find peace in death.

As soon as the whole miserable affair was over, Clarke hopped on the first flight out of Arkadia, Virginia. She flew back to her home turf in Polis and climbed the steps to the rooftop of her building, still wearing the black dress picked out by Cece Griffin.

Clarke abandons her heels on the rooftop’s floor. She climbs up onto the ledge, curling one leg under her while the other dangles freely. Her head tips back against the stucco wall supporting her. For the first time in twelve hours, she’s able to fill her lungs with air. Her exhale comes out a broken sob.

Clarke grits her teeth together, but the onslaught has already begun. Her shoulders tremble from the force of grief that pummels into her.  _He’s gone. He’s really gone._

All she wants is to talk to him again. Hear his soothing voice. Her dad always knew the right thing to say, understood her better than anyone. Even Clarke herself. How can she live in a world without her dad?

After a few minutes, Clarke forces her eyes open. She looks out at the expanse of the night sky spread out above her. The rooftop of her apartment building was nothing to write home about, but it’s empty at this time and granted a pretty great view of the night sky.

That’s all Clarke is looking for. Solitary and quiet. When she glances at the stars, the deep ache in her heart lessens slightly.

_We come from stars,_ her dad used to say to her. As an engineer, he believed in science as his god.  _And one day, we’ll return to the universe. That means I’ll never leave you, kiddo. Don’t cry for me when I’m gone. I’ll be watching over you on a star._

Clarke finds a bright star now and focuses on it. Her tears drip silently down her face. She feels something that's not quite peace, but close enough wash over her.

Naturally, it doesn’t last.

The door to the stairwell bangs open. Her solitude is brought to an abrupt end when a man spills out. He paces onto the rooftop in heavy stomps. Clarke glares from her hiding spot. Does he have to make so much damn noise?

The guy appears to be caught up in his own shit. He’s taking deep breaths, rummaging his fingers through messy, black curls in frustration.

Clarke wonders if she should clear her throat, let him know he has company. Honestly, she wants to tell him to leave. She was here first. But just as Clarke parts her lips to say something, the guy spins around and kicks at one of the plastic patio chairs.

She flinches as it snaps in half and falls to the ground in broken pieces. He glares down at the mess, fury still visible in the tight lines of his body, his clenched fists. The chair isn’t enough for him, apparently. He goes to kick the short, square table too and send it screeching across the floor.

“Hey!” Clarke calls out. “Why don’t you trash your own apartment instead?”

Her voice makes him whirl around. When the man steps into the light, she can make him out better. Dark brown eyes narrow when he sees her huddled against the ledge. He’s still scowling, the muscles in his broad shoulders and arms tensed for a fight.

She’ll give him one if that’s what he wants. Clarke is in a shitty mood too. She doesn’t need this angry jackass disrupting her almost-peace in her quiet place.

“My apartment is occupied,” he answers back sharply. “Can’t beat the shit out of my roommates. I need their rent money.”

His lips twist into a smirk, but Clarke can’t share his amusement. His voice briefly distracts her from the dark cloud of grief cloaking her mind and her annoyance. Clarke  _feels_  that voice in her stomach. Deep, husky, slightly rumbling. It doesn’t just reach her ears when he speaks, but ripples through her whole body. Stupidly sexy.

_Stop it,_ she chides herself.  _You have a boyfriend._

“You got a name?” The guy asks when she doesn’t respond to his comments.

Her eyes run over him. Despite his earlier outburst, the guy doesn’t seem dangerous. He’s keeping his distance and she understands needing an outlet for emotions, even if Clarke prefers passive aggressiveness herself.

If the guy tries anything, Clarke has her switchblade in her purse. A gift from her dad.

“Clarke,” she answers.

The guy nods. “I’m Bellamy,” he says, although she didn’t ask. “Do you mind climbing down from the ledge, Clarke?”

Clarke notices his rigid posture has a new purpose behind it. He’s watching her vigilantly like he fears she’s actually going to fall off the roof. That, of all things, brings a spark of amusement to her bleak mood.

“Nope,” Clarke says, continuing to swing her leg. “I’m pretty comfortable here.”

Bellamy huffs, rolling his neck. “Look,” he barks, “I’ve had a rough day. The last thing I need is being a witness to you falling to your fucking death. Just get down.”

She likes the sound of his aggravated voice. Or maybe it’s because he’s the first person in the past month to show outright concern for her well-being. Her mom didn’t seem to notice when Clarke was in the room. She didn’t care when Clarke left Arkadia either.

“I bet my day sucked more than yours,” Clarke retorts with bitter amusement.

“Doubt it,” Bellamy says. “Did it suck enough for you to throw yourself from the roof?”

Her eyes roll. He really isn’t going to let it go. She doesn’t want him to leave though. His presence provides a temporary distraction from her pain. So Clarke jumps down from the ledge, landing on the balls of her feet.

“Happy?” She demands.

“Ecstatic,” Bellamy bites sarcastically.

Clarke bends down to retrieve her purse, hooking the straps of her heels on her arm. She feels the stranger’s dark gaze on her as she comes closer, joining him under the rooftop’s lighting.

She leans against the wall, keeping the stairwell door in her line of sights, just in case. This guy towers over her, especially since she’s barefoot. He is also, frankly, fucking  _beautiful_. Clarke has an artist’s eye and a soft spot for beautiful things.

She admires the spill of freckles across his cheeks, the slope of his strong jaw, and tendrils of black curls falling on his forehead. His big, dark eyes study her intensely while giving nothing away. Everything about him is intense, she thinks. Bellamy doesn’t seem aware of his intimidating appearance or he just doesn’t care.

“I’ve seen you around before,” he notes. “I live on the other side.”

He jerks his head to the right, indicating the apartment building directly across from them. The complex is joined together, forming a U-shape. There is a quad below between the two buildings that includes the enclosed community pool.

Clarke’s brow lifts. “You don’t even  _live_  here and you’re destroying the place?”

Bellamy snorts. “Settle down. My side has a basketball court on the roof. I come to this side to clear my head.” His lips curve into another smirk. “If that’s alright with you?”

Clarke shrugs like she couldn’t care less. “If you’re going to break shit and make a nuisance of yourself, just come when I’m  _not_  here, okay?”

“Sure,” he agrees with that infuriating sarcasm.

Bellamy walks over to join her at the wall, resting his elbows on the ledge. She turns around so she can look out over the city with him. The silence should be awkward since they're strangers, but maybe their animosity already broke the tension.

Clarke can feel her mood darkening again, sadness seeping in as she remembers her dad. He never came to Polis. He was planning to visit soon; to see the life his daughter was making out here on her own. But now he never will.

He won’t meet Finn. He won’t be there the day she opens her own art gallery. Or the day she gets married, if that ever happens. So much of her life he’ll be missing from.

Another tear runs down her cheek. Clarke quickly swipes it away.

“Hey,” Bellamy says softly. “Are you okay?”

“No,” she murmurs. “I buried my dad today. I am the furthest thing from okay.”

From the corner of her eye, she sees Bellamy wince. “Shit. Okay, you win. Your day sucks worse than mine.”

Clarke turns back to him curiously. “Let’s hear it. What caused you to storm out here and pick a fight with patio furniture?”

His mouth twitches, before frustration darkens his expression, drawing his brows down over his eyes. “Got into a fight with my roommates. One of them moved out today and it’s my fault.”

“Your fault?” she prods.

“Yeah.” He sighs, rubbing at his jaw. “She made that clear when she threw all of my clothes into trash bags and dumped them with the garbage.” He gestures down at his worn gray shirt and jeans. “Technically, these are the only clothes I own now.”

She might laugh, if it were any other day. But Clarke sucks her teeth. “Yikes. That is pretty bad.”  

“Anyway, my friends are pissed because she always paid her rent on time and now we’re out of a roommate.”

Clarke scrutinizes him. “What did you do to this girl?”

“Nice try.” Bellamy scoffs. “You’re judging me hard enough without the dirty details. No thanks.”

She shrugs, turning her eyes back to the night sky. “Suit yourself. We’ll probably never see each other again. And I’m not really in a position to judge anyone since I ran out on my dad’s funeral after giving the worst eulogy in human history.”

“Okay, now I’m intrigued,” he says, curiosity drenched in his tone. When she shakes her head, he presses. “You can’t leave me hanging, Clarke. What happened?”

Clarke thinks it over for a moment before heaving a big sigh. It can’t hurt to get this off her chest to a complete stranger. Like she said, they’ll part ways and never have to face each other again.

“So two days ago, my mom came to me and asked me to handle the eulogy,” Clarke begins lowly, picking at her chipped blue nail polish. “I said no, at first. I thought I’d be crying too hard. But the truth is, I didn’t want any part in the funeral. The whole thing was orchestrated by my grandmother and went against my dad’s wishes for what he wanted for us.”

She stops to take a breath, her throat burning from unshed tears. “Cece didn’t give a shit about that. They were estranged. She did what she wanted, made the whole fucking thing about  _her_ and her religion. It was disgusting. So when I got up to give my eulogy, the first thing out of my mouth was, ‘My dad would have hated this’.”

Bellamy lets out a low noise of amusement. “No, you didn’t.”

Clarke nods, grimacing. “Yep. I blanked out on the rest of it. I kind of lost it, I guess. Went on a rant about disrespecting his wishes and stormed out. My grandmother will probably never speak to me again.”

“Sounds kind of epic, actually,” he remarks. “I bet the look on her face was priceless.”

Clarke cracks a small, reluctant smile. “It was.”

She can feel his eyes on the side of her face. “Were you and your dad close?”

Her breathing hitches with her answer. “He was my best friend. I don’t know to exist in a world when I can’t talk to him anymore.” Clarke wipes angrily at the tear that leaks out of her eye. “Ugh. Sorry. This is really heavy for a neighborly chat.”

“I think we’re past that,” Bellamy says wryly. “And the heavy is better than the fake bullshit. I’d rather have a conversation where people are actually transparent about what they want.”

There’s a note of bitterness in his voice that has Clarke glancing at him, interest hooked. “This roommate of yours did a real number on you, huh?”

Bellamy looks away, an angry scowl twisting his gorgeous face. “I thought we were on the same page. I was honest with her the whole time. Spoke my naked truth and she fucks me over for it. Most people can’t handle honesty.”

“Naked truth?” she echoes.

“It’s something my sister came up with,” he explains. “Learned it in therapy, I think.” He cuts his dark eyes back to her, eyes that a girl could get lost in. “You spoke your naked truth today, Clarke. Don’t let anyone make you feel bad for it.”

Despite herself, Clarke finds herself smiling for the first time in days.  _Naked truth_. She likes the sound of that. And she agrees with Bellamy surprisingly. Some transparency would be refreshing in her life.

Clarke nudges his shoulder, finding it comes naturally. “So Bellamy, what’s your naked truth?”

“Right now?” He asks. He trails his eyes down her body slowly, heat entering his gaze. “I want to fuck you.”

She almost reels back, blinking in shock. “What?”

She can’t remember the last time someone said the words,  _I want to fuck you,_ to her so bluntly. It’s possible no one ever has, outside of bed anyway. Even Finn isn’t that direct with his dirty talk.

“That’s the truth.” Bellamy is unconcerned by her reaction, a smirk playing on his lips. “You’re beautiful, Clarke. I could use a one-night-stand to clear my head right now. If this wasn’t the worst day of your life, I’d definitely be hitting on you.”

Clarke needs a moment to pick her jaw up. Her cheeks are flushed. Bellamy watches her, delight flickering in his dark eyes. Well, he succeeded in distracting her from grief, that’s for sure.

“Um,” she clears her throat. “I have a boyfriend.”

His shoulder shrugs carelessly. “Yeah, I’ve seen. Doesn’t really change the fact I want to fuck you.”

“Stop saying that,” Clarke hisses and it makes him laugh. She can’t help but notice that he has a nice laugh, rich and deep like his voice.

“I get it now,” she snaps through the blood burning her face. “Your roommate moved out because you’re an ass.”

That sobers Bellamy up a bit. He chuckles to himself. “You’re not wrong.”

Silence sinks in between them again. Clarke doesn’t know what to say. What to follow his earlier statement with. She has a feeling his low voice saying,  _I want to fuck you_ , is going to be haunting her for a while.

“Your turn,” Bellamy teases. “What’s your naked truth, Clarke?”

“I already told you mine,” she grumbles. “Anti-eulogy speech, remember?”

He shakes his head, leaning against his elbow as he turns his body toward her. The motion makes his curls dip into his eyes and she squashes the strange urge to brush them away. “You’ve got more than one truth inside you, I bet. What’s something you haven’t told anyone before? Something you can confess to a complete stranger?”

It doesn’t take Clarke long to think of her answer. An idea that’s been brewing inside her for so long, but she hasn’t spoken it out loud. She was afraid of giving voice to it, afraid of people calling it silly or making her doubt her own wants. Her dad would have understood. She never told him either, though now Clarke wishes so badly that she did.

“I want to open my own art gallery. It’s my dream.”

Bellamy whistles lowly at that, like that wasn’t what he expected. How can he expect anything when he doesn’t know her?

“Ambitious,” he says. “What’s stopping you?”

Clarke ticks the reasons off on her fingers. “A location, artists to showcase, knowing how to run my own business, and funding. To name a few things.”

“No,” he disagrees, surprising her. “That’s a list of things to figure out. I asked, what’s stopping you? Honestly?”

“Support,” she blurts. “It’s not something I can do on my own. Dreams need a support system; you know? My mom would fund the money if she didn’t think it was ridiculous. My boyfriend’s not the cheerleader type. And well, I haven’t lived here that long. I don’t know a lot of people.”

Bellamy tucks his chin into his hand as he listens, frowning to himself. “Your boyfriend sounds like a tool.”

Clarke rolls her eyes. “You’re just saying that because you want to sleep with me. You don’t know him.”

“Maybe,” he admits. “Look, don’t give up. You need time to build up resources, get a game plan, but it’s not impossible.”

She squints at him. His advice isn’t terrible, but she has to wonder why he’s listening to her at all. “Why are you telling me this?”

Bellamy’s lips quirk up. “You’re interesting to talk to. Even if you won’t fuck me, it’s a good distraction from how pissed I was. Consider me your first supporter.”

Clarke laughs softly. “Thanks, Bellamy.”

He’s been a decent distraction too. She’s hasn’t met anyone quite as refreshing since she moved to Polis a few months ago. She likes something about Bellamy’s intensity, his veracity. A welcome remedy to how numb she’s been feeling.

Her phone vibrates in her purse. Clarke pulls it out to peer at the screen. It’s Finn calling her, wondering where she is.

She sighs. “I have to go.”

Clarke slings her purse over her shoulder and slips back into her heels. She feels strangely reluctant to leave the rooftop. It’s likely better this way. If she gets to know Bellamy any better, the reality will disappoint her, like everyone else.

Bellamy nods at her in goodbye before turning back to looking over the ledge. Clarke tries to shake off her disappointment as she walks to the stairwell. That was one of the most intimate conversations she’s ever had. It feels wrong to just walk away like it never happened.

But as Clarke’s hand closes over the door’s handle, Bellamy’s voice draws her back.

“You’re wrong, by the way,” he calls out to her. “We  _will_ see each other again.”

Her eyebrow arches upward. “Planning on stalking me?”

He smirks. “Call it a gut feeling.”

 

* * *

 

The gray storm clouds and pouring rain outside are the perfect match to Clarke’s mood. She hates her job. Her mom won’t answer her calls. And her dad is still gone.

The past two weeks have been rough, to say the least. But no matter how hard her life was before, Clarke could always call her dad and talk to him about it. He made her feel like everything would be okay. She’s lost that now.

Grief steals the breath out of her lungs all over again. Just when Clarke’s mind finally focuses on something else, it will slam into her. She’ll remember. The remembering is the worst feeling. She'll be going about her day and suddenly it's like she's stepped out onto a ledge, hitting empty air with nothing but a steep drop below her. She falls into grief, over and over. 

From the back of the Uber car, Clarke digs her phone out of her bag. She hits re-dial, all the while knowing it’s useless. As expected, her call goes straight to voicemail.

“Mom,” she huffs. “Call me back when you get this. I need to talk to you. It’s important.”

She hasn’t heard from her mother since the funeral. Clarke worries endlessly about her overdosing on Valium, alone in her empty house. According to Dr. Jackson, a co-worker of her mother’s, Abby is still on bereavement leave from the hospital. Every day, Clarke is more tempted to fly back to Arkadia and figure out what’s going on.

Besides her worry, Clarke’s second biggest concern is she can’t find her dad’s watch. He gifted it to her after his passing. In her quick departure from Arkadia, Clarke must have left it at her parent’s house. She wants the watch.

When the car rolls to a stop in front of her apartment complex, Clarke sighs and pulls her hoodie up. She thanks her driver and dives out into the onslaught of rain. She’s completely soaked by the time she makes it inside.

Clarke lets herself into the apartment and immediately removes her wet shoes and socks. She hates the feeling of wet socks. She pauses when her eyes land on Finn’s boots beside the front door. He’s supposed to be at work. What is he doing at her apartment?

An uneasy feeling twists her stomach. Immediately, Clarke senses that something is off. The television is off in the living room, which is usually were Finn is when he’s waiting for her to get home.

Except he  _shouldn’t_  be waiting for her. Clarke didn’t tell him her boss let her leave early.

She sets her bag and keys down and turns toward the hallway. Her bedroom door is partly open, just like she left it this morning. It’s also completely empty. Her uneasiness grows when Clarke crosses the hall to her roommate’s closed door.

Ontari is off from work today. There’s a perfectly logical explanation for why she’s in her room. Clarke tells herself it’s not what she thinks it is, even as her instincts are shrieking at her. She listens in for a moment and hears The Weeknd playing in the background.

Her stomach rolls. That’s Ontari’s sex playlist. And under the music, her ears pick up on the sound of the bed creaking.

Clarke closes her eyes as bile burns in her throat. She’s going to be sick. No, she’s going to  _kill_ someone. Preferably her roommate and her boyfriend. Those assholes!

It doesn’t take long for the nausea churning in her system to shift to blind rage. The blood pounds in Clarke’s veins with the urge to catch them in the act, to shame them for betraying her.

She doesn’t think twice before storming ahead, throwing the bedroom door open. The sight is just as hideous as she expected.

Finn in naked and in the middling of fucking Ontari on her back when she bursts in. They don’t hear her at first, over the music and Ontari’s obnoxious moans. Clarke rolls her eyes to herself. She’s slept with Finn. He’s not good enough for all that noise.

Clarke hunts for the source of the music. She charges over to Ontari’s phone plugged into the dock’s speakers. Turning the music off would be too simple. Clarke’s rage calls for her ripping the dock’s cord out of the wall and throwing it across the room.

Maybe she’s not  _that_  passive aggressive. It’s satisfying when the device crashes into Ontari’s dresser and scares the shit out of the two of them.

“Oh my god! Fuck!” Finn scrambles off of Ontari when he sees her. “Clarke! What are you doing here?”

She lets out a humorless laugh. “Oh, I’m sorry! Did my schedule interrupt you  _cheating_  on me with my  _fucking_  roommate?”

Ontari reclines back against the headboard, careless to her nudity and betrayal. “We’ve been doing it for a month. It’s about time you noticed.”

Her and Ontari have never been close. Clarke wouldn’t even call them friends, but it still hurts that the person she’s been living with for five months is sleeping with her boyfriend. And she doesn’t even have the decency to feel  _bad_ about it.

“Fuck you,” Clarke snarls at her. “You couldn’t find someone to sleep with you so you jump on the only guy that visits here?”

Ontari smirks, unbothered by her insult. “I was bored.”

“Unbelievable,” she mutters. Clarke spins on her heel and marches out, making a beeline for her own bedroom. She slams the door behind her.

“Clarke, wait!” Finn shouts after her.

She simmers with rage as she rummages through her closet for her suitcases. It’s only been two weeks since she put them away after flying home for the funeral. At least now she has an excuse to go back.

Finn lets himself into her room, his clothes thrown hastily back on. His shirt is outside out. “Clarke, listen to me, please. I can explain this.”

Clarke tunes him out, throwing her clothes into bags. She has to keep herself busy, her mind fixed on packing. If she stops, she’ll break. And Finn doesn’t deserve her tears. She  _won’t_  cry in front of him.

“It meant nothing,” Finn continues frantically. “Just sex.”

“Is that supposed to make it better?” She shouts. The volume of her voice leaves an ache in her throat.

Finn flinches at her outburst. He has the audacity to look like a kicked puppy. After a moment, he pushes his long hair back out of his face. “I’m sorry, Clarke. It’s just…You’ve been so distant lately and one night Ontari just came onto me and I—”

“No!” Clarke erupts, cutting him off. She speaks again lower, colder. “You’re  _not_ going to use me grieving my father as an excuse for cheating, Finn.”

She turns away quickly before he can see the tears in her eyes. It’s too much. A storm of grief and hurt whirling in her chest. Her hands start to shake. She clenches them at her sides, her nails pinching into her palms.

“Get out,” Clarke hisses.

“Baby—”

She reaches her breaking point. If her dad can see her from beyond the grave, Clarke thinks he would understand and not judge her too harshly.

Clarke pivots and swings her arm forward, catching her fist on Finn’s cheek. The force sends him staggering back and he trips over the box of paint by her bed, landing on his ass.

Punching someone hurts worse than she imagined it would. She’s never hit a person before in twenty-three years. Her parents are non-violent people and raised her to talk her problems out instead of resorting to aggression. But Clarke loses it.

She winces, cradling her throbbing fist against her chest. Regret strikes her instantly. Not for punching Finn, but possibly damaging her painting hand. That was reckless.

“Fuck!” Finn groans from the floor, a hand pressed to his quickly swelling cheek. “I can’t believe you did that!”

Clarke ignores him, scrambling the rest of her things together. The immediate stuff. She’s going to have to leave most of it behind, but whatever. That’s another day’s problem. She just needs to get out of this apartment.

Ontari watches her leave from her open doorway, clad in a silk robe. If she says a word, Clarke tunes it out. She flips her the bird as she passes and escapes to the hallway with three bags heavy in her arms.

Clarke makes it to the stairwell before she loses some steam. Outside the window, she can see the storm has only gotten worse. There’s no way she can get a flight back to Arkadia today. Maybe not tomorrow either. And then there’s the issue of her mother not responding to her calls.

The threat of tears comes on again. Clarke wants her dad. She wants to see him so bad she feels like she might  _shatter_  with it.

Forcing deep breaths, she tries to keep herself together. Figure out a game plan and then she can cry. As her thoughts spin over options, Clarke realizes that she doesn’t have to leave the apartment complex. Not tonight, hopefully.

Adjusting her bags over her shoulders, Clarke turns away from the stairwell and heads in the opposite direction. It takes a few minutes of walking, but she makes it to the other side of the complex. It’s a miracle she remembers the apartment number. 3-27.

In front of the door, Clarke sets down her bags to give her arms a break. Her left hand hasn’t stopped stinging, so she knocks awkwardly with her right.

_Please be home,_ she pleads silently.  _Please, please._

The door opens. Murphy leans against the threshold, in the middle of chewing something. He scans his blue eyes over her, widening slightly.

“Christ, Griffin,” he mutters. “What the hell happened to you?”

Clarke scowls. “My boyfriend is a cheating asshole. And my roommate is a traitorous cunt.”

Murphy nods, pursing his lips. “Is that all?”

Clarke puts on her most pathetic, pleading face. Which isn’t hard. She feels pretty pathetic right now. “Can you let me in? I have nowhere else to go.”

He thinks it over for a moment before sighing and stepping back. “Fine. But only because you look like a sad, drowned kitten.”

“Thank you,” Clarke exclaims. Murphy can call her whatever names he wants, as long as he lets her come inside.

She’s never actually been inside of the apartment. Clarke met John Murphy about six months ago, shortly after she moved to Polis. He was the miserable temp when Clarke got hired at Azgeda Inc., working as an illustrator in the graphics department.

He hated Ontari, the office bitch, just as much as she did. They were the only people in the office the other could tolerate.

Frequently, Murphy would sit next to her during Nia’s dull meetings and make them bearable by muttering sarcastic commentary under his breath. Clarke would draw cartoons of Nia in her notebook that Murphy found hilarious. For lunch every day, Murphy would bring dishes he made at home and let her sample them.

Clarke missed him and his lunches when Murphy left Azgeda Inc. He got hired at a restaurant downtown as a kitchenhand. It didn’t take long for him to weasel up the ranks to line cook. She was happy for him.

The days at the office were tedious and a bit lonely without him at first. Her only friend. Then, her boss’s son, Roan King, returned from managing the international office in Singapore (an  _exile_ , Roan called it, instead of a luxury). Clarke made fast friends with Roan and the office became bearable again.

They didn’t see each other as often, but Clarke kept in touch with him. They liked the same shows and food, so sometimes they had Netflix binges at Clarke’s place. Murphy claimed she had a better television setup, but she still wondered if there was another reason he never invited her over to his place.

The apartment looks normal and lived-in when Clarke enters with her bags. It’s  _bigger_  than her place, actually. There’s a staircase off of the living room, leading up to a second floor. The most surprising thing, however, is the large bookshelf that brackets the television and takes up most of the wall. Her friend calls  _her_  a nerd for enjoying reading for pleasure.

Clarke’s lips quirk, dropping her bags by the door. She heads straight to the bookshelf. “Okay, whose apartment are you squatting in, Murphy?” She teases. “These  _can’t_  be yours.”

“Actually, they’re mine.”

Clarke freezes at the voice. She knows that rough baritone. Her head whips around and finds Bellamy emerging from the kitchen, watching her in amusement. He’s shirtless, in a pair of black joggers hanging off his hips, and wearing square-framed glasses.

“Bellamy?” Clarke gasps.

She isn’t sure if she’s more shocked to see him here or dazed by how  _good_  he looks. Somehow even hotter than she remembers.

Bellamy grins at her, flashing dimples she hadn’t noticed in the dark. “Who’s stalking who?”

“Wait,” Murphy snaps before she can think of a reply. He turns on Bellamy. “You know her? Tell me you haven’t screwed her too, man.”

“No!” Clarke says. She doesn’t trust Bellamy not to spin another tale if given the chance. Leave it to him to say they fucked on the roof that night. “We haven’t.”

“Good.” Murphy sounds relieved, despite his lazy posture. “I was hoping you still had standards, Princess.”

Clarke cringes when Bellamy’s eyes flicker at the nickname. His grin sharpens. “Oh.  _This_ is the spoiled, high-maintenance princess in the art department?”

“Nice,” Clarke snarls at Murphy.

He shrugs. “Said out of love.”

Bellamy crosses into the living room, throwing himself onto the green couch to look up at her. “So what are you doing here,  _Princess_?”

“Her boyfriend is slipping it to her roommate!” Murphy calls out on his way to the kitchen. “She needs a place to crash.”

Clarke glares at the back of Murphy's retreating head. Her face burns from mortification. She doesn't need Bellamy, a practical stranger, knowing her personal business. 

“Just for a night,” she says when Bellamy’s eyes snap back to her. “Once the storm passes, I’m flying back home.”

“You can’t go back to that shithole.” Murphy strolls into the living room, now carrying a bowl of chili. She apparently interrupted his dinner. “No way, Clarke. What’s there for you in Arkadia? Jack shit, that’s what.”

She huffs, crossing her arms over her chest. “My mother, for starters. An empty house. I need to get my shit together before I can find somewhere else to live.”

Murphy pauses his chewing to ask, “What about work? Is the Ice Bitch going to give you time off to apartment hunt? She barely gave you three days for your dad’s funeral.”

He has a point, damn him. Clarke ranted to him on the phone about Nia giving her hell about taking time off. The Ice Bitch didn’t believe in vacation time or bereavement evidently.

“Roan will take care of it,” Clarke insists. “And if not, whatever. I’ll quit. I need to find another job anyway. Azgeda is like working in Azkaban.”

Her Harry Potter reference flies over Murphy’s head, but she sees Bellamy’s lips curve into a small smile. “ _Gryffindor_ ,” he mouths at her. She’s not surprised.

Murphy points at her with his spoon. “I’m all for you quitting Azgeda. Fuck that place. But you’re not leaving Polis. You go back home and you’ll never come back, Clarke. You’ll get sucked in.”

Clarke doesn’t want to acknowledge that he’s probably right. If she moves in back home, it’ll be that much more tempting to stay there with her mom. Whatever’s going on with Abby might drown her. Clarke is torn between being a good daughter and chasing her dream of being a real artist, in Polis. The whole reason she left the small town of Arkadia behind.

“I don’t know what to do,” Clarke admits, rubbing at her temples. “I  _can’t_  go back to Ontari’s either. I’m stuck.”

“Fuck Ontari,” Murphy agrees, so vehemently that she cracks a smile. “Look, you can crash here. Figure your shit out. Just promise me you won’t go back to Arkadia.”

Bellamy shoots him a curious look. “What’s with your stance against that place?”

“I have a stance against  _all_  bullshit small towns,” Murphy explains, which she knows. They’ve ranted about that too. Murphy is from a farm town in Indiana, where his deadbeat dad abused him and no one did a damn thing about it.

He locks his blue eyes on Clarke. “You got out, Princess. You did your old man proud. Don’t go back.”

Her throat tickles, remembering her dad’s reaction when she said she was moving to Polis. He was worried for his little girl but  _thrilled_. Her biggest supporter.

“Okay.” Clarke exhales deeply. “I promise.”

Murphy nods. “Good. Now help yourself to some chili. I made it. It’s fucking amazing.”

She does exactly that, grabbing a bowl from the kitchen and joins the boys in the living room. The chili  _is_  delicious, not that she’s surprised. Cooking is Murphy’s calling.

Thankfully, the heavy chat is over for the night. As they eat dinner, Murphy puts on  _Nailed It_  on Netflix and Clarke gets to forget about her heartache. For a little while.

It catches up to her after Murphy shows Clarke to the spare bedroom and they part ways for bed. When Echo left, she didn’t leave anything behind. The room is bare with only a full-size bed, a white dresser, and an empty desk.

She just drops her things on the floor and digs through them for a pair of yoga pants and an old T-shirt to change into. The best part is the bathroom attached to the room, which includes a shower. Clarke warms up under the spray of hot water, but alone in the shower, she has no place to escape from her thoughts. No other distractions.

Tears stream down her face, mixing in with the water. She loved Finn.  _Still_ loves him, almost as much as she hates him right now. He was far from the perfect boyfriend, but he made her smile just like her dad did for her mom. He was sweet and funny and exactly the person Clarke  _thought_  she could depend on—until now.

Clarke could expect something like this from Ontari, but Finn was the closest person in her life. She was supposed to be able to trust him. He wasn’t the man Clarke thought he was and now she wonders if she knew him at all. It hurts to be this wrong. It hurts to question her own heart’s judgment. And it hurts worse to feel like she can’t trust  _anyone_ now.

When the water runs cold, Clarke forces herself to get out. She changes into her sleep clothes and retrieves a blanket from the closet to cover herself with on the plain mattress. She falls asleep hoping to wake up to a different life.

 

* * *

 


	2. The Roommate Test

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally, Raven nods. “Okay, here’s the deal. You can stay on a trial basis. Three strikes, you’re out. And you still have to pass the roommate test.”
> 
> “The roommate test?”
> 
> Bellamy smiles at her apprehension. “It just means we have to see if you fit in with our friends. Not fuck up the dynamic. We’re hosting game night next Friday.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! You have no idea how happy the response to this fic has made me :-) You're all awesome!
> 
>  **Note:** There's some recreational drug use in this chapter. Just a fair warning. 
> 
> We've got Clarke adjusting to being part of the roommate gang, some beer pong in honor of Beliza, and Bellarke moments in this chapter. This is a slow burn fic, but I promise the "benefits" part of their friendship will start soon. 
> 
> Enjoy!

Clarke is allowed to stay the night in the spare bedroom. She hasn’t forgotten that the reason the room is empty has _something_ to do with Bellamy. But that’s a question to bug Murphy about another day.

As soon as Clarke lays her head on the pillow, she’s out. She barely had the energy to shower and change out of her soaked work clothes. The day has been exhausting and she falls into a deep, blank sleep until the next morning.

Clarke is the first one awake. The apartment is silent and dark when she comes downstairs, freshly showered and dressed for the day.

Murphy probably sleeps late and keeps odd hours for his job. She has no idea what Bellamy does. There’s another roommate she hasn’t met yet, Raven, that is also absent. The other girl was working late at her “genius job”, according to Murphy, and missed the commotion last night.

Clarke heads straight for the coffee maker and gets it going. She has a list of things to do today and she can’t tackle any of them without her caffeine. Thank God it’s a Saturday and she can avoid having to see Ontari at work for the next two days.

Still, she has to go by the apartment eventually to get the rest of her stuff. Her paint supplies are a priority. Then there’s searching for a new place to live. Preferably far away from where her ex-roommate and ex-boyfriend will be every day. And she still has an assignment from Nia to finish over the weekend.

Clarke is startled out of her mental checklist by a loud scoff behind her. “You must be a special skank if Bellamy’s letting you touch his coffee maker.”

She whirls around to face the unexpected voice. It belongs to a beautiful, brunette girl in a NASA T-shirt and plaid boxers. She stares down Clarke with her arms crossed.

Clarke blinks at her, the words coming slowly in her sluggish brain. “Did you just call me a skank?”

The brunette girl pushes herself off the wall and steals the mug of hot coffee out of Clarke’s hands. “Sorry, Blondie. The coffee is for people that actually _live_ here. No freebies. House rules.”

 _This_ must be Raven. The third roommate.

Clarke can barely pick her jaw up when Raven gestures vaguely at the kitchen wall with her free hand. There’s a chalkboard hung on the wall, HOUSE RULES written at the top. In the number one spot are the words _no freebies_.

Her curiosity is hooked by then, so she reads over the rest of the list. Rule #2 is _refill the condom cookie jar when it’s empty._ Followed by Rule #3: _don’t touch murphy’s food. _That rule has a crude drawing of a skull and crossbones beside it.

Clarke snorts. She’s interrupted from reading the rest of the rules by the sound of someone thumping down the stairs.

“Hey Blake,” Raven’s voice echoes from the living room. “Tell your little guest to leave a tip if she’s gonna raid our kitchen.”

Clarke’s cheeks flush. Belatedly, she realizes that this girl thinks she slept over because of Bellamy. As his hook-up. _Christ._ Why is that the first assumption both of his roommates made? How many times does he have girls stay over?

Bellamy lets out a choked laugh. “Oh, you mean Clarke? She’s Murphy’s guest, not mine.”

Her eyes widen and Clarke is sprinting into the living room before this girl gets the wrong impression _again_.

Raven is already scowling and leveling her with a death glare before Clarke starts to explain. “Not like that! I’m Murphy’s _friend_. I needed a place to stay last night. That’s all.”

Raven’s dark eyes lessen from withering to a disgruntled morning glare. “Huh. Sorry I called you a skank. I’m Raven Reyes.”

She’s not apologizing for stealing the coffee, though. “Clarke Griffin,” she responds and turns back to the kitchen to pour herself another mug.

“You called her a skank?” Bellamy asks, amused. “Seriously, Reyes?”

“Whatever,” Raven bites back. “Common mistake when I’m practically tripping over your groupies in the morning. How was I supposed to know? And since when does Murphy have _friends_?”

Clarke carries her coffee mug into the living room and sits on the mismatched armchair while Raven and Bellamy occupy the couch. “At Azgeda, it was between him and Ontari,” she explains, shrugging. “Strangely, I picked Murphy.”

Raven gives her what might be a friendly smile. Then Bellamy adds, “Ontari being the ex-roommate that her boyfriend slept with.”

“Can you two stop spreading that around like it’s neighborhood gossip?” Clarke snaps. “It’s _my_ life we’re talking about.”

 _Unfortunately._ She still can’t believe Finn cheated on her. Her emotions were a wreck yesterday, raw and painful, but now the numbness has set in. Clarke can view the betrayal and the scene at her apartment like it happened to someone else. 

Raven waves her off. “There are no secrets in this house. That sucks, Clarke. What a prick.” She turns her eyes to her curiously. “I can get his computer under investigation by the FBI. Just say the word.”

Clarke appreciates the offer, as illegal and bizarre as it sounds. “Uh, thanks, Raven. I’ll keep that in mind.”  

A loud groan echoes from upstairs. “Too. Loud. Shut the fuck up!”

Raven rolls her eyes. “Poor baby cockroach. We all don’t have the luxury of sleeping in on Saturdays!” She yells back. “Get over it.”

A _thump_ comes from the ceiling like Murphy threw something heavy on the floor. His response to shut them up, she guesses.

Bellamy catches her eye from behind his black glasses and smirks. “Welcome to living with a bunch of rude assholes.”

That gives Clarke pause, at the same time Raven’s head snaps up to gawk at him. “Hold up,” she says. “Since when is she _living_ here? I didn’t agree to that.”

“Neither did I,” Clarke says, shooting Bellamy a baffled look.

“Well, why don’t you?” He asks like it’s the perfect solution to a problem they _hadn’t_ been discussing. “You need somewhere to live and we have a free room.”

“Yeah,” Raven cuts in hotly, “we have the room because you ran Echo out! You don’t get a vote on the new roommate, buddy.”

“It’s a democracy here,” Bellamy reminds her, with enough smugness that gets on Clarke’s nerves despite the fact he’s vouching for her. “ _Everybody_ gets a vote. Come on, Reyes. Murphy likes her. _I_ like her. This makes perfect sense.”

Clarke is surprised at the admission. She isn’t sure how she feels about Bellamy after just two conversations, but he feels strongly enough to consider living with her. To plead her case to his roommate, even. Why? What does he get out of it?

Maybe he feels bad about running Echo out and wants to find a quick replacement. He _did_ mention that they need the rent money. The longer Clarke thinks it over, it does seem like an unexpected opportunity.

Raven focuses on her with sudden intensity. “You pay your rent on time?”

Clarke sits up. “Yes. Always.”

“You have references that can back that up?” She demands.

“I can get them.”

“You have a steady job?”

“I work at Azgeda Inc.,” Clarke tells her. “As an illustrator. Full-time.”

“Are you neat?”

“I keep my mess to my room,” she says, going for honesty. “I can’t cook, but I did the dishes and kitchen clean-up at my old place. I can do that here.”

Raven eyes her critically. “You got any weird shit we should know about? Pets? Creepy family members? Fetishes?”

Clarke bites her lip to hold back a laugh. “No. None of that.”

It’s tense and quiet as Raven thinks it over for a minute. This all happened too abruptly for Clarke to be nervous, but she hopes they accept her. Not having to look for a new place would make her life so much easier and the building is already close to work.

Finally, Raven nods. “Okay, here’s the deal. You can stay on a trial basis. Three strikes, you’re out. And you still have to pass the roommate test.”

“The roommate test?”

Bellamy smiles at her apprehension. “It just means we have to see if you fit in with our friends. Not fuck up the dynamic. We’re hosting game night next Friday.”

Clarke nods, taking a sip of her coffee now that she’s no longer under interrogation. “Sounds reasonable. What are the three strikes I should be on the look-out for?”

“Breaking House Rules,” Raven retorts. “Read them, learn them, follow them.” She swallows down the last of her coffee and climbs off the couch. “I’ve gotta get ready for work.”

With that, Raven shoves her empty coffee mug at Bellamy and disappears back upstairs.

Clarke lets out a breath when it’s just her and Bellamy alone in the living room. “Wow. She’s really intense.”

He laughs lowly. “Nah, she’s just not a morning person. And she takes no shit. Which is why she and Echo got along so well. It’s _me_ she’s really pissed at for screwing that up.” He holds up Raven’s coffee mug. “As my penance, I have to do her chores for the next month.”

Clarke smiles at that. “Sucks for you, but _I’m_ glad to have a place to live. Thanks for vouching for me. You didn’t have to do that.”

He shrugs, pushing his glasses up his nose in a way that is distractingly adorable. “Like I said, it’s my fault we’re out of a roommate. I felt responsible for fixing it. Just don’t fuck it up.”

“I’ll be on my best behavior,” she vows.

As Clarke gets up to rinse her cup out in the sink, she pretends not to hear Bellamy murmur under his breath, “ _God, I hope not._ ” 

 

* * *

 

Clarke returns to the room she can claim as hers, her shoulders feeling light and unburdened for once. She stores her meager belongings away, the toiletries she grabbed and a few days’ worth of clothes, while making a list of what she’s missing.

She needs her laptop to work on Nia’s assignment. That she can’t put off for longer.

Her phone chimes on the dresser. Hope swells in her chest that her mom is finally responding. Nope. She has five missed calls from Finn and several unread texts from him.

_Finn: pls call me back. i’m sorry clarke._

_Finn: i’m not mad about you punching me. pls baby. let’s talk about this._

_Finn: where are you??? just answer me. i’m worried._

_Finn: fine. i’m at your place. i’ll be here when you come back. we can talk then._

Her eyes roll at the last message. It sounds vaguely threatening. Knowing Finn, it’s more petulant and he was pouting as he sent it. Great. Now he’s camped out at her apartment and she has to face him and possibly Ontari if she’s home.

Clarke lets out a deep sigh. Her only hope is that Ontari is out somewhere kissing Nia’s ass as she does in her free time from Azgeda.

She gives herself a cursory glance in the bathroom mirror, grimacing at her tired reflection. Her eyes are puffy and red-rimmed from crying yesterday. Clarke does her best to hide the evidence with eyeliner.

Not having the energy to put the usual care into her appearance today, Clarke just throws on a red flannel shirt over leggings and a cap over her hair. She grabs her keys and braces herself to face her ex much sooner than she had planned.

Bellamy is in the living room when she comes downstairs, seated in the swivel chair. He has a book open in his lap but glances up at her entrance.

“You look like you’re about to go to war,” he notes.

“Close,” Clarke mutters. “I’m going back to my place to grab my stuff. Where my ex is going to ambush me.”

She expects a snarky comment at her misfortune, maybe a sarcastic wish of good luck. What Clarke _isn’t_ prepared for is Bellamy re-setting his bookmark, setting his book down, and getting to his feet. “I’ll go with you.”

“What?” she demands, incredulous. Bellamy is just full of surprises. “Why?”

Bellamy shrugs. “You could probably use the backup. In case he tries anything.” He glances meaningfully at her swollen left hand.

Clarke regrets telling him and Murphy the whole story yesterday. Now they’re worried about her when it’s not necessary. Finn is a cheater and a liar, but he’s not _violent_.

“I can take care of myself,” she insists.

Bellamy just holds her gaze, a muscle ticking in his jaw with resolve. Not budging.

Clarke scoffs, not in the mood for an argument. “Fine. But you have to carry my heavy stuff. Let’s go.”

The walk across the complex seems shorter than it did yesterday. In a blink, they’re facing her old apartment door. Her heart flutters in her chest. She tells herself she has no reason to be uneasy. _She_ did nothing wrong here.

Clarke can feel Bellamy’s eyes on the side of her face as they hover there. She sucks in a breath and pushes forward, fitting her key into the door. He follows behind her silently. She won’t admit it, but Clarke does feel safer with Bellamy at her back.

They’ve barely taken a few steps inside when Finn comes around the corner, his brown eyes wide and hopeful. It pisses her off. He has no right to look like he _missed_ her after what he’s done.

“Clarke,” he exclaims, smiling softly. “You came back.”

Finn tries to rush over to her, but Bellamy steps in between them like a broad, brick wall. He shields Clarke from the sight of Finn, but her imagination is creative enough to envision what his face must look like. Shocked, then furious.

“Who the hell are you?” Finn barks.

Bellamy speaks to her as if Finn hadn’t spoken at all. “Go get your stuff, Clarke. I’ll wait here.”

Clarke gives him a grateful look that he doesn’t see with his back to her. She heads down the hallway to her bedroom, distantly hearing the sounds of a kerfuffle as Finn tries to follow her and Bellamy stops him. She is spared from Finn’s harassment and free to pack up her things in peace.

She loads up the rest of her clothes, shoes, and toiletries in the bags she brought, then moves on to the furniture. Bellamy found a cardboard box for her to use, so Clarke fills that with her paint supplies, books and materials from work. The rest she can come back for another time if she needs to. 

Anything that reminds her of Finn, she leaves behind. That includes the plush deer he won for her on one of their dates and the sheets that he’s slept on.

The tension is thick, simmering in the air when Clarke walks back with her haul. She almost chokes on the testosterone. Bellamy takes the box from her as Finn fails to catch her eye. She won’t let him make her feel bad about this.

“Clarke, come on,” Finn pleads, following them toward the door. “Can’t we talk about this?”

Clarke gives him one last cold look. “We’re done, Finn. _You_ made sure of that.”

He flinches, his head hanging low like her words pain him. Good. He deserves the hurt.

She thinks that will be the end of it. There’s nothing more to say. But Finn can’t let it go. Clarke makes it into the hallway outside the apartment with Bellamy on her heels. Or he was before Finn says something that makes him turn back.

The two of them square off in the doorway. Clarke has no idea how the animosity managed to rage higher between two people that don’t know each other. Finn glares at him with loathing in his eyes.

Then Bellamy leans in, smirking and murmurs, “What do _you_ think?”

Clarke missed the question that was asked. But Bellamy’s response makes Finn’s face twist with revulsion and hatred. He lurches forward and takes a swing at Bellamy.

Bellamy side-steps him easily, laughing at Finn’s expense. “God, you’re pathetic.”

“ _Bellamy_ ,” Clarke hisses while Finn struggles to regain his balance. “Let’s just go.”

His eyes flit to her when Clarke pleadingly says his name. His amusement dies out and she thinks she sees a flash of remorse on his face before his expression hardens again.

Finn uses Bellamy’s distraction as an attempt to lunge at him again. A loud, enraged cry emerges from Finn as he throws his whole body forward. However, Bellamy’s reflexes are fast. Finn only manages to slam into the box when Bellamy uses it to block his attack. He thrusts the box into Finn’s stomach and sends him stumbling back into the wall.

Bellamy turns away, jerking his chin at her. Clarke doesn’t need to be told twice. She strides forward, taking quick steps and leaves her ex-boyfriend behind, loudly swearing at both of them. Hopefully, it’s for the last time. 

 

* * *

 

Silence follows them to the apartment. It’s far from comfortable, as Clarke’s heart is still banging against her ribs from the scene in the hallway.

She had no idea Finn was capable of _attacking_ a total stranger. Clearly, she didn’t know him at all. God, she’s been so blind. So stupid. She’s wasted the last five months of her life on that guy.  

Bellamy sets the cardboard box down on the round coffee table. He hasn’t said a word in ten minutes. Which, even with not knowing him that well, is too long for him. Bellamy doesn’t hold his tongue.

Clarke hates that he might think less of her after meeting Finn. She can’t stand the quiet any longer. “Just say it.”

Bellamy’s head snaps up from where he had been staring into the box. His brows furrow at her harsh tone. “Say what?”

“Whatever it is that you’re thinking.” Clarke gestures at him, sharp with impatience. “Out with it.”

His lips curl into a cruel smirk. “Believe me, you _don’t_ what to know what I’m thinking, Princess.

“Don’t call me that,” Clarke snaps. Surprise widens his eyes, taken back by her hostility. “You think I’m pathetic, right? For putting up with him. Well, I didn’t know he was—”

Bellamy shakes his head, cutting her off tersely. “No. You don’t me or anyone an explanation, Clarke. That’s on _him_. Not you.”

His words and the firm tone behind them douse her annoyance. It’s not Bellamy’s fault at all. She’s not being fair. But he’s here and she’s burning from embarrassment and anger for everything that’s happened in the past two days.

“I don’t want you to think less of me,” Clarke admits, her voice suddenly small.

She didn’t mean to say it out loud, but there it is. Her naked truth.

“I don’t,” Bellamy says, with enough ferocity that she believes him. “You didn’t deserve any of this. You deserve better.”

Clarke has to look away from his dark, fierce eyes. Her throat squeezes with gratitude that she doesn’t know how to express. She doesn’t know what she did to earn Murphy and now Bellamy in her corner. That kind of loyalty is incomparable.

She clears her throat after a minute, trying to break up the sudden tension.  “What did he say to you?”

Bellamy understands what she means almost instantly. “It doesn’t matter,” he says dismissively. “He’s a dick.”

“He is,” Clarke agrees. “But I still want to know.”

She senses his reluctance to tell her. They glare at each other, both of them holding on stubbornly. Clarke’s jaw tilts up, preparing her argument. She has a right to know if they were discussing _her_.

But eventually, Bellamy groans and relents. “You’re a real pain in the ass, you know that?”

Jaw still taut, Clarke arches her brows impatiently. Waiting.

“He asked if we were fucking,” Bellamy spits out. He sounds disgusted, but not at her. He shakes his head. “Don’t know what you saw in him.”

Anger rekindles in her veins, hitting her with fiery lashes. She remembers Bellamy’s smirk, his taunt in Finn’s face. She is furious with Bellamy for provoking him. She’s furious with Finn for his immature behavior. And she’s furious with herself for getting into this situation.

“You told him no, right?” She demands. Bellamy’s exact words are unclear. Clarke only sees Finn’s dark expression in her mind.

Bellamy shoots her a look, his own frustration evident. “I said, ‘what do you think’. I figured you’d want to get back at him!”

“I didn’t need to ‘get back’ at him,” Clarke retorts. “He cheated on me! I had the high ground. Or at least I _did_ until you told him that!”

He rolls his eyes at her, infuriating Clarke more. “So he thinks you had a rebound. So what? He’s a fucking idiot. You shouldn’t give a shit what he thinks.”

“I don’t,” she fires back. At Bellamy’s skeptical brow lift, she adds, “I don’t _want_ to. I’m not like him, okay? I’m not going to screw somebody else for revenge.”

“Well, maybe you should.”

As Clarke ponders that statement, Bellamy digs his phone out of his pocket and frowns at the screen. “Shit. I gotta head out.”

“Thanks,” Clarke murmurs, bringing his attention back to her. “For having my back.”

Bellamy’s face softens for a moment into a half-smile. “Anytime.”

She watches him collect his keys from the hook by the door, throwing her a parting wave before he leaves. Once he’s gone, Clarke drops her face into her hands. Today has been too fucking much and it’s only noon.

Clarke needs to paint. She needs to get out of her head for a little while. The rest can wait.

 

* * *

 

Monday morning comes too soon. Clarke is tempted to hide under her covers and never have to set foot inside Azgeda again. But she doesn’t want to be the girl that hides. She won’t let Ontari win; won’t let anyone’s opinions scare her off.

At work, her day is pretty normal. Which means it feels like working in Hell directly under Satan. Nia is a nightmare in human flesh that reaps joy out of making her employees miserable and over-working them.

 _Lucky bastard,_ Clarke thinks to herself every time she remembers that Murphy got out.

“I’m going to quit,” she announces, walking into Roan’s office and shutting the door.

“No, you’re not.” He doesn’t even look up from his computer, having heard Clarke threaten to quit since he joined them from Singapore.

Clarke drops down into one of the high-back chairs parked in front of Roan’s massive oak desk. His office resembles a medieval throne room more than a corporate workspace. The rug under her feet looks like a furry wolf’s pelt.

“I am,” Clarke insists, unpacking her lunch on Roan’s desk. “I have my whole storm-out planned. Starting with decking Ontari in the face and then I scream ‘I quit bitches!’ and walk out forever.”

“Could use more flair,” Roan mutters in his usual monotone.

She rolls her eyes. Finally, Roan tears himself away from his computer to steal a handful of her potato chips and pours them into his mouth. As he chews, he keeps his piercing blue stare locked on her. A furrow appears between his brows in concentration.

Clarke is used to Roan’s _Roaness_ by now that she just keeps eating.

When he swallows, he finally asks, “What’s up with you and Ontari today?”

Clarke stills with her sandwich halfway to her mouth. She lowers it slowly, her face suddenly blank. “What do you mean?”

Roan smirks. “Clarke, you body checked her into the copy machine this morning. Remember? It was hilarious.”

Her eyes widen innocently. “That was an accident.”

Roan looks at her with his flat gaze until she cracks.

Clarke groans. “Ugh. Fine. But this goes in the _vault_ , okay? You can’t tell anyone. I don’t want the whole office knowing.”

He nods solemnly. “I swear on my mother’s grave.”

“Your mother’s not dead, Roan,” she retorts.

“Let me dream,” he mutters and a snort escapes her. “Just tell me. If I was going to talk shit about you, I would have done it already.”  

Clarke decides to tell him. Not out of an overwhelming amount of trust, but knowing Roan, he’ll hate Ontari even more for it. And he’ll keep Clarke from killing her with a stapler, if only because he doesn’t want to deal with the paperwork that comes with a murder at the office.

“I found out she’s been screwing my boyfriend,” Clarke says. “For a _month_.”

Roan thinks it over for a moment before he grimaces. “Finn? Really?”

She reaches for the closest file on his desk to smack his arm with it. Roan lets her, smirking all the while. “Come on. It’s not like it’s a big loss for you.”

“It _hurt_ , you asshole!” Clarke cries.

“Hey, I’ve always said you can do better,” he answers unapologetically. “Don’t cry over that tool. Get under someone else. You’ll feel better.”

She huffs, throwing the file back amongst the stack. “That’s what my roommate said. Great advice. You’re supposed to hate Ontari with me! What kind of a friend are you?”

“The only one you’ve got here,” Roan replies, smirking wider at her sharp glare. “I hate Ontari because she’s surgically attached to my mother’s ass. But I’ll give her grunt work if it’ll make you feel better.”

Clarke lets herself smile. “Please? It _really_ would.”

Roan turns to the intercom on his desk and presses a button. “Ontari,” he barks. “Get in here.”

Clarke has to smother her laughter behind her sandwich. It takes a minute, but the door to Roan’s office opens behind her and Ontari appears. When Clarke glances over her shoulder, Ontari is glaring daggers at her.

“How can I assist you, sir?” Ontari asks, sickeningly sweet.

Roan rolls his eyes. “Save the brown-nosing for my mother. I need you to reorganize the file room.”

Ontari pauses at the order, her lips pursing into a frown. “The file room already has an organizational system. What do you want me to do?”

He’s silent for a few moments, his fingers tapping on the desk. Behind his blue eyes, the diabolical wheels are turning. “How about this? Find every file that mentions our client, Delphi, and bring them to me.”

Horror slips through the cracks of her stoic expression, although she tries to hide it. “We don’t have an electronic database for the old files,” she says through her teeth. “I would have to check them each myself. That will take _days_.”

“That doesn’t sound like _my_ problem,” Roan replies. “Do it.”

“You can’t do this to me!” Ontari snaps, breaking her tightly wound composure. “Your mother won’t allow it.”

“I’m your superior,” he says coolly. “I don’t need her permission to give you an assignment. But you can discuss it with her, when I write you up for insubordination.”

Resentment burns in Ontari’s eyes. Her nostrils flare, but she wisely keeps her mouth shut. Clarke struggles not to outright laugh at her. When Roan sees she isn’t going to argue again, he nods. “You’re dismissed.”

Ontari throws Clarke one last venomous glare that sears through her before she storms out. When the door slams shut, Roan looks at her. “You’re a petty bitch.”

“So are you,” Clarke replies with a smirk.

“Yeah,” he agrees. “I suppose that’s why we’re friends.”

 

* * *

 

Her first week at the new apartment goes by in a blink. Clarke works as many hours as she always has, so she doesn’t spend a lot of time there. Once, Clarke _tries_ to bring her work home with her and finish an assignment in the living room—only to have Murphy confiscate her laptop.

He claims the living room and kitchen, the common areas, are “work free zones”.

“Is that a House Rule?” Clarke asks cheekily.

“It’s a Murphy Rule,” he shoots back. “After-work hours are for drinking, watching trashy television, and sleeping. That’s it.”

That night Clarke ends up cramped on the couch in between Murphy and Bellamy, much like her first night there. Bellamy chooses _21 Jump Street_ as his movie pick. They eat microwave popcorn and drink through Clarke’s beer supply. When Raven gets home from her date, she joins them to watch _Zombieland_.

Clarke doesn’t go to bed until 2 am. She is exhausted, but her sides ache from laughing so hard and her stress has melted away. She sleeps deeply through the night without crying herself to sleep and wakes up feeling refreshed.

Then it’s Friday night, the weekend at last. Typically, Clarke goes out for a drink with Roan on Fridays after work. But since it’s their place’s turn to host game night, Clarke is dragged on a food and drink run with Murphy before happy hour hits.

Nerves turn her stomach over. She wants to make a good impression on their friends.

Clarke picks at the chips and dip laid out on the counter, prepared by their resident chef. She’s _supposed_ to be helping Murphy in the kitchen, but her mind is elsewhere as he barks orders over his shoulder.

The apartment door pops open and Clarke’s attention is hooked by the sight of Bellamy coming inside. Shirtless.

He is almost always shirtless around the apartment, but Clarke still hasn’t gotten used to it. Her eyes linger on his broad shoulders and muscular arms, glistening with sweat. Her mind glazes over for a minute, wondering if those arms could lift her up, support her weight against the wall. Those shoulders look _sturdy_ …

Clarke quickly shakes her head, forcing her gaze back to his face. Not the kind of thoughts to be having about her roommate. Bellamy is using his balled-up shirt to mop up the sweat on his forehead.

“Hey Princess,” he greets when he enters the kitchen. Clarke bites her lip, watching the muscles in his back ripple as Bellamy retrieves a bottle of water from the fridge.

He tosses the first bottle behind him and that’s when Clarke notices that someone followed him inside. Bellamy’s friend is wearing basketball shorts like him, also sweating, but has a sleeveless shirt covering up his chest.

“This is Nate Miller,” Bellamy introduces him.

“Miller,” he corrects and offers her a closed-lip smile.

“Clarke Griffin,” she says. “Nice to meet you.”

“Ah.” Miller gives Bellamy a knowing look, his lips quirked up. “The new girl. How _is_ poor Echo doing, Bell?”

Bellamy uses his sweat-stained shirt to swat at Miller’s ass. Clarke laughs and nearly chokes on the chip she’s eating. Miller retaliates by reaching to tweak at Bellamy’s exposed nipples, the two of them struggling and laughing against the fridge.

“Hey!” Murphy yells, spinning around from the stove with his spatula in hand. “Keep your homoerotic wrestling away from my food! Take it outside.”

Miller snorts as he backs off of Bellamy, hands raised. “Don’t get jealous, Murphy. I’m not trying to steal your man. I have my own.” He winks before turning to nod at Bellamy and Clarke. “Gotta head home to shower. See you guys in a bit.”

Bellamy wanders over to Clarke at the island counter once Miller is gone. Silently, she wishes he would leave to shower too. His scent hits her nostrils with his proximity, heady and rich. She ignores what the aroma does to her hormones.

Bellamy takes a handful of tortilla chips and smirks at Clarke’s munching. “Stress eating?”

It’s a bad habit she has. It only took Bellamy a few days of living with her to notice. Clarke covers it up with false bravado. “Nah. I’ve got this. Your friends are going to _love_ me.”

Intrigued, Bellamy raises his eyebrow. “Oh yeah? How’s that?”

Clarke matches his smirk and leans in like she’s whispering a sacred secret. “My beer pong skills. I’m a _legend_.”

His brown eyes flicker and his voice sounds an octave deeper when he says, “I’m holding you to that, Princess. We have to beat Jasper and Monty.”

The sound of his voice like that makes her stomach quiver. Clarke quickly excuses herself under the guise of setting up beer pong in the next room while Bellamy travels upstairs to shower and change.

Jasper Jordan and Monty Green are the first to arrive. They live on the sixth floor and have been friends with Raven since she moved into the building three years ago. With them, they bring a horde of snacks—mostly junk food—and joints to “get the festivities started”.

Clarke hasn’t smoked since college. She hasn’t necessarily missed it, but having the option in front of her now is appealing. It will relax her ridiculous nerves, at least.

As a bonus, Clarke enjoys the stunned look on Bellamy’s face when he comes downstairs and finds her laying on the floor, taking a deep inhale from the joint in Monty’s hand.

Clarke giggles, staring up at him with her head in Jasper’s lap. “Hi Bellamy!”

His lips press together, smothering a smile. “Having fun?”

She nods that she is. Then she’s dislodged from her spot when Jasper leaps up like an excited puppy. He dashes over to greet Bellamy, chatting excitedly, until Murphy enters the room with a plate of jalapeño poppers and his attention is diverted again.

Clarke enjoys talking to Monty. It takes him a little while to warm up to her, but the weed helps him open up. Monty is studying engineering as a grad student, like her dad did, and she gets caught up listening to his brilliant solar energy project idea.

Miller arrives next, bringing his roommate Harper and his boyfriend Bryan. She finds out Miller knows Bellamy as far back as high school. He and Harper live in the apartment directly above theirs and merged groups once Harper started dating Monty.

The apartment is animated by loud voices, laughter, and music when Raven gets her playlist going. Once everyone has their beverage of choice and snacks, they gather in the cramped living room space to play Cards Against Humanity.

There’s nothing like a raunchy card game to break the awkwardness between strangers. Clarke feels warm and happy from her spot in between Monty and Raven, laughing freely and getting high-fives from Jasper every time her card is picked. Murphy pretends to be scandalized at her answers.

Raven wins their first round, bowing at their applause and gloating shamelessly.

Finally, beer pong is upon them. The rest of the group watches from the floor as her and Bellamy face down Monty and Jasper—the unbeatable duo. The boys give themselves a high-five before they begin. Bellamy and Clarke exchange glances on their side of the beer pong table. “ _We got this_ ,” he mouths.

Clarke smirks at him. Yeah, they do.

The first time Clarke sinks a ball in, Raven and Murphy cheer on behalf of their apartment. By the third time in a row, she can sense the impressed look Bellamy is giving her.

“God damn, Griffin,” Bellamy mutters as Jasper laments their winning streak from the other side. Monty is trying to keep him pumped up. They’re both drunk by then.

“I told you,” she says smugly. “I never lost a match in college.”

Ironically, the more Clarke drinks the better her coordination actually gets. She’s never been an athlete and has made it a point to avoid anything that involves exercise in her life, but beer pong she can crush.

Bellamy hits the last of Jasper and Monty’s cups. Miller, the self-proclaimed referee, announces them as the winner.

Clarke jumps up and down, cheering from excitement. Bellamy sweeps her into a celebratory hug and she laughs, both of them tipsy and soaring on their victory.

Everyone gets a chance to play a round before game night wraps up, hours later. Harper goes with Monty back to his and Jasper’s place, while Miller and Bryan crash on the living room floor in the cot Raven makes up for them.

Bellamy and Clarke are the last ones still awake after their roommates have slinked off to bed. As part of his penance, Raven had dumped clean-up duty on Bellamy. Clarke helps him with it because it bugs her to go to sleep to a dirty apartment.

It’s 4am by the time Bellamy carries the last trash bag out. Clarke drops onto the couch, still buzzing from all the excitement. Her tiredness is muted, able to be pushed off for now. She’s practically wide awake when Bellamy comes back.

His eyes find her on the couch. He smiles instead of smirks, his edges softened from the late hour and alcohol running through his veins. “I got another joint off of Monty,” he says quietly. “Rooftop?”

“Rooftop,” Clarke agrees, smiling back.

They cross the silent apartment complex to the other side and climb up to the roof. The door is sealed shut, but Bellamy knows the trick to wiggle it open. Warm summer air greets them as they step out onto the rooftop. They sit on the plastic patio chairs. Someone must have replaced the one that Bellamy broke.

Bellamy digs out a Bic lighter from his pocket and blazes the cigarette for them. He passes it to Clarke first. Her head tips back against the chair, feeling warmth curl up in her limbs. The buzz in her body melts into contentment.

“I can’t believe it,” Bellamy says around the cigarette. “You’re a secret stoner.”

Clarke laughs lowly. “Is it a secret? I was an art student, Bellamy. Of _course_ I’m a stoner.”

His cheek pressed to the chair, he grins at her, lazy and relaxed. “What else don’t I know about you?”

She steals the joint from his hand and takes a drag. “Guess you’ll have to find out, roomie.”

 

* * *

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Your comments give me life <3
> 
> Here's my [tumblr](http://www.kombellarke.tumblr.com)


	3. Princess Bubblegum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The door to her bedroom bangs open, crashing into the wall. Clarke is startled out of sleep. Then Murphy bursts in and yells, “STRIKE ONE!”
> 
> “What the fuck,” she mutters.
> 
> Clarke rubs the sleep out of her eyes, blinking blearily. A glance at her alarm confirms it’s the middle of the night. 3:30 am. She has no idea why Murphy is in her doorway at 3 am on a Tuesday or what he’s shouting about.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, I am blown away by the response to this story! Thank you all so much <3 I'm having a blast writing it!
> 
>  **Note:** There is some minor violence/blood at the end of this chapter. Stay safe, loves. 
> 
> Enjoy!

  

On Sunday morning, Clarke wakes up to an email waiting in her inbox. It’s from her mom.

_Hi Sweetie,_

_I’m sorry I haven’t answered your calls. Your grandmother and I have taken a spiritual retreat to heal during this difficult time. No technology is permitted. We’ll be at the Wellness Resort in New Mexico for the next two weeks._

_I don’t want you to worry about me, Clarke. Take care of yourself. Hope all is well. I’ll talk to you when we return._

_Love,_

_Mom_

Tears blur Clarke’s eyes as she reads over the message. She tells herself she’s overreacting, but it does nothing to soothe the hurt welled in her chest. Her mom just took off to New Mexico and left her to grieve by herself.

 _Hope all is well_. Clarke scoffs, rubbing at her eyes. What bullshit. Nothing is well. She needs her mother. Clarke has never been as close to Abby as she was to her dad, but they should be brought closer by their shared mourning. Not miles apart.

Clarke closes her laptop and resumes what she was doing before the email came in. She gathers up her dirty clothes in her laundry bag and her detergent before heading out of the apartment, to the laundry room on the first floor.

Another resident is there when she arrives, feeding her clothes into one of the dryers. She gives Clarke a friendly nod before she walks out. Clarke sets her bag down on the table and goes about separating her clothes. She has her headphones in, drowning out the heavy ache in her heart with the sounds of Billie Eilish.

Clarke takes a seat at the table as she waits for her first load to finish. She likes to get up early on Sunday mornings to get her laundry done while few residents are awake. That’s why it comes as a surprise when the door to the laundry room opens and Raven enters, her long ponytail swinging behind her. Clarke hits pause on her music.

“Hey,” she greets.

Raven offers her a small smile. She’s been warmer towards Clarke since game night. “Hey. I followed you down here,” she says unashamedly. “Wanted to talk to you about something.”

Clarke removes her headphones, laying the chords around her neck. “What’s up?”

Raven crosses her arms over her chest before she begins. “Look, I know we make jokes about the House Rules stuff, but we have them for a reason.”

She nods. Clarke can respect that. Rules serve a purpose, as annoying as they might be. “I get it. If I broke one—”

Raven shakes her head, cutting her off. “No, you’re good, Clarke. That’s why I’m telling you this. I like you and I think you’re a good fit here. And I don’t want that to get screwed up. Not like it did with Echo.”

The mention of her name makes disappointment flash in Raven’s eyes. Clarke tries to tread carefully. “Bellamy thinks it’s his fault that she moved out.”

“It is,” she retorts, scowling now. “Bellamy and Echo were hooking-up. It got ugly, feelings got hurt, blah blah. It isn’t my business who he sleeps with. But Bellamy should have known better than to get involved with her if it wasn’t serious. Now we have a new rule. No sex between roommates.”

Clarke swallows, fighting the urge to squirm under the force of Raven’s glare. She hasn’t done anything. Yet. But she hears Raven’s warning loud and clear. Keep the flirting under control. Don’t sleep with Bellamy.

“Got it,” Clarke confirms.

Raven’s stern expression softens a bit. “I don’t want you to get hurt, Clarke. I mean it. Bellamy’s a great guy. I love him, I do, but he’s not someone you want to catch feelings for. It won’t end well.”

Her words ring ominously through the room. Silence stretches between them over the sounds of the machines humming. After giving her a minute to absorb the message, Raven brightens up.

She claps her hands together. “Great. Now that the depressing shit is out of the way...Do you want to come to brunch with me and Harper?”

Clarke blinks, startled by the abrupt switch in tone. She smiles. “Oh, yeah. Sure. Let me just finish my laundry.”

Raven nods, backing out. “Cool. We won’t leave til 11, so you’ve got time. See you upstairs!”

The door closes and Clarke is left alone with her mind still lagging behind that conversation, trying to catch up. She’s grateful when the washing machine beeps and keeps her busy as she switches the load out for the next one.

Logically, Clarke knows better than to get involved with someone she’s living with. That’s practically a recipe for disaster. Especially after what happened with Finn and Ontari, relationships aren’t on her radar right now.

Most days, Clarke is wading through sorrow about her dad, struggling to stay afloat. Then there are the days that she misses Finn. Or rather, misses the _idea_ of Finn. The sweet boyfriend. She longs for having someone to wake up with, to comfort her after a hard day. It’s the little things, like playing with her hair while they snuggle on the couch. Or remembering her favorite candy while she’s on her period and miserable. Clarke misses having someone that knows her so intimately and loves her for it.

Despite missing it, she’s not ready to find that with someone new. The thought of opening her heart again—the smashed pieces left of it—is too daunting. Clarke can’t bear to be hurt and betrayed like again. She’d rather be alone.

Upstairs, Clarke showers and gets ready for brunch. She’s excited for a girls’ day. Clarke has more guy friends than girls, as a habit that probably originated from her childhood best friend, Wells, but she looks forward to that changing thanks to Raven.

She, Raven and Harper eat at a café called Eden’s. They order mimosas and Clarke is treated to hilarious stories about the guys. She gets the impression that their whole group is close and Clarke is warmed at the idea of becoming a part of it. A new family.

Harper apparently did ROTC with Miller in high school. Her story about Miller accidentally shooting their instructor in the ass with an air rifle has Clarke almost snorting mimosa out of her nose. Raven has _plenty_ of juicy stories about living with Murphy and Bellamy, which she lovingly refers to as “certified dumbasses”.

They talk and bitch about their jobs as well. After serving in the Air Force, Harper moved back to Polis and got involved with Greenpeace, where Monty also worked as an intern. They bonded over environmental campaigns and have been together for over a year now.

Raven tells Clarke about the app she’s developing, which has her working from home a lot. In her spare time, she helps out her uncle at the mechanic shop he owns.

“Sinclair isn’t my uncle by blood,” Raven explains to her, waving her hand. “But he’s family.”

After brunch, they go wandering around the neighborhood, chatting and dipping into a few boutiques. Clarke introduces Harper to her favorite vintage shop, where they try on different items, laughing at some of their outrageous finds. Raven snaps a photo of the three of them posing in crazy hats and sunglasses and posts in on Instagram.

Clarke is surprised to see how wide and genuine her own smile is. It feels like she might actually be healing, slowly, stitch by stitch. 

 

* * *

 

Clarke steps away from the canvas, her paintbrush dripping red onto the newspaper-coated floor. Pride tingles in her chest. The finished result might be even better than the vision in her head.  

It has been a while since Clarke has been so consumed with inspiration. In every spare moment she could grasp, she had used to paint. This piece was born weeks ago, the day she moved in, but it’s only today that she finished it.

The painting is mostly done in black and white, with a splash of red for color. It depicts a faceless woman on a smoky grey backdrop, her figure made of shadows. A cigarette dangles from her fingers and from it is a stream of white smoke. Inside the stream are the words in bold red font: **Fuck Love. Make Art.**

Clarke smiles to herself, admiring her work. It feels good to channel her pain and anger into something productive.

A light tug on her hair brings Clarke slamming back to reality. She whirls around, her pulse racing and finds Bellamy in her room, standing right behind her. His expression is amused and expectant.

“You ass,” she hisses, swatting at him. “You scared me!”

He shrugs a shoulder at her. He’s wearing his glasses again and a grey hoodie. It seems they’re both in casual mode, but Bellamy looks soft and adorable while she feels sloppy. Her hair is pinned up and she has on her paint clothes: a faded David Bowie T-shirt and leggings.

“I said your name. Had to get your attention somehow, Princess.”

“You could try taking your shirt off,” she quips.

Immediately, Clarke scolds herself. _No flirting!_

Bellamy grins back at her, boyish and playful. “Noted.”

Clarke finds that she likes this soft side of him, so different from the way he struts around the apartment or his loud, competitive persona that came out during game night. Bellamy was surprised at her smoking pot, but _he’s_ the one she can’t figure out.

Then Bellamy is reaching for her face, his thumb sweeping over her temple, down to her cheekbone. Clarke’s eyelashes flutter at the featherlight touch. His hand comes away with red paint staining his finger.

“You had a little…” He gestures at her cheek. “But I got it.”

She swallows, her voice a bit raspy. “Thanks.”

Thankfully, that does the trick of snapping Clarke back into herself. She steps away, putting some much needed space between them, and busies herself with dropping her dirty paintbrushes into water-filled mugs.

His eyes stray to her drying painting on the canvas, his face turning thoughtful. “That’s an interesting take.”

Clarke hugs her arms over her chest, feeling self-consciousness creep up on her. “Yeah. I guess I’m in a mood.”

“Understandable,” Bellamy says. His gaze returns to hers. “We should hang it. In the living room or something.”

Her eyes widen. “Really?”

He nods. “Yeah. You’re not selling it, right? We can put it up, welcome people to the fuck love club.”

Clarke laughs at that. “The fuck love club, huh?”

She glances at Bellamy as he keeps studying her painting. His earlier playfulness is gone, his jaw ticking with buried emotion. There’s something hard behind his eyes, a deep sadness that has calcified with time.

She recognizes that look. Hers is still fresh though. “Is that how you feel too?”

“Not just me,” Bellamy mutters, dodging her question. “Raven and Murphy do too. You’re in good company.”

A heavy silence descends between them, loaded with what isn't being said. Bellamy doesn’t offer any other information and Clarke isn’t comfortable prying into a clearly sensitive subject.

She clears her throat. “I should let this dry.”

Bellamy takes the hint, backing away to the door. She can see him trying to shake off his sadness, put up a casual front. “Raven and I are ordering take-out for dinner. Come downstairs if you wanna cast your vote.”

When he leaves, Clarke cleans up her mess, washing her paint brushes and disposing of the stained newspapers. Eventually, she ventures downstairs to join her roommates.

They eat Thai take-out together, sitting on the floor with their backs leaning on the furniture. Raven wants to watch old _MythBusters_ episodes and this time Bellamy doesn’t argue for the History Channel. He’s quiet as they eat. After dinner, he heads out without a word.

Clarke and Raven stay on the couch to watch TV. She fights to put on _Bob’s Burgers_ because it feels like _somebody_ should keep Raven from getting her way all night. Around midnight, they part ways for bed, falling asleep to a quiet apartment.

That doesn’t last long.

The door to her bedroom bangs open, crashing into the wall. Clarke is startled out of sleep. Then Murphy bursts in and yells, “STRIKE ONE!”

“What the fuck,” she mutters.

Clarke rubs the sleep out of her eyes, blinking blearily. A glance at her alarm confirms it’s the middle of the night. 3:30 am. She has no idea why Murphy is in her doorway at 3 am on a Tuesday or what he’s shouting about.

Murphy narrows his eyes at her. He’s dressed in his white undershirt and black slacks for work. She guesses he just got off his shift. “You ate my fudge,” he accuses. “That’s strike one, Princess! NO ONE TOUCHES MURPHY’S FOOD!”

“Hold on.” Clarke pushes herself into a sitting position against the headboard. “First, how do you even know it was me?”

“Raven told me.” Murphy emits a low noise like a buzzer. “Busted!”

She rolls her eyes. “That’s unpleasant. Second, it didn’t have your name on it. Free game.”

“No!” Murphy snaps. “No, absolutely _not_. I made that for me. I don’t make fudge for you greedy bastards. That was _not yours to eat!_ ”

The bathroom door opens next, bringing in Bellamy from his connected room. Only in a pair of dark boxers, damn it. Judging by his tousled curls, he was asleep as well. He walks in looking murderous.

“Why are you _yelling_?” Bellamy demands.

“She ate my fudge!” Murphy shouts back.

Bellamy turns his head to look at her, squinting. He’s just as disgruntled as she is. Clarke shrugs. She can’t be apologetic at this hour. “In my defense, I _needed_ chocolate. Cravings are a bitch.”

Murphy erupts with a frustrated growl that she struggles not to laugh at. He jabs a finger at her. “You’re going to regret this, Princess. _This means war_.”

He exits the room as abruptly as he came in, slamming the door behind him. Silence follows in his wake. Clarke doesn’t know if she should laugh hysterically or avert her eyes from Bellamy’s half-nakedness just _there_ in her room.

Bellamy glances at her, a gleam in his eye. “This is _Sparta_ ,” he mocks.

Clarke laughs. She’s relieved he’s in a better mood. “What the hell was that? Did Murphy just _threaten_ me?”

He smirks. “You’ve pissed off the gremlin now. Murphy is a pranking master. You should stay alert.”

“I’ve been warned,” she mutters through a yawn.

Clarke lays her head back down on the pillow and doesn’t hear Bellamy retreat to his room, sleep tugging her under.  

In the morning, Clarke isn’t sure if the midnight accusation actually happened or if she dreamed it. She gets ready for work, goes about her normal routine, and doesn’t cross paths with Murphy at all that day. The first 24 hours are safe.

However, Clarke should have heeded the warnings. She should have kept her guard up. The following morning, she emerges from the shower, her hair dripping wet. Wrapped in a towel, she returns to her room to blow-dry her hair and grant Bellamy access to the bathroom.

As part of their usual routine, Clarke has wait for him to finish up before she gets the chance to style her hair or apply make-up, depending on the day. When he’s done, Bellamy knocks once on the door to let her know it’s safe to come in.

Clarke walks in with her brush, sets her eyes on her reflection in the mirror and shrieks.

The sound bursts from somewhere inside her. Clarke gapes back at herself with wide, horrified eyes. Her hair is _pink_. Bright, bubblegum pink. How could this happen? Was there something in her shampoo?

Realization strikes her, a flash of lightning in her veins. “MURPHY!” she bellows.

Clarke stomps out the bathroom and charges across the hall to Murphy’s room. She throws the door open, quite similar to how he did two nights before. She finds him knocked out, mouth wide open and snoring in his bed.

“Are you KIDDING me?” Clarke shouts. “You dyed my hair because of _fudge_?!”

Murphy wakes up at the loud volume of her voice. He snorts as soon as his eyes focus on her. “Karma’s a bitch ain’t it, Princess?”

Clarke shakes her head, her teeth clenched with rage. “It is so on. You want a war, Murphy? I’ll give you one.”

“Bring it, Pinkie Pie,” Murphy quips and laughs at his own joke. He calls out to her as she storms away. “Don’t worry. You’ll be back to Barbie blonde in about, oh, 1-6 weeks!”

Clarke marches downstairs, too furious to think straight. Her heart slams against her ribs. She can’t go into work looking like this. Nia will fire her on the spot. She can’t even imagine the delighted look on Ontari’s face if she saw her right now.

As soon as she steps into the kitchen, Bellamy bursts out laughing. He throws his head back, his shoulders shaking. She can’t appreciate the rich sound this time.

Clarke glares at him spitefully. Her cheeks are probably as pink as her hair.

Raven turns around from the sink and drops the bowl she was rising out. Her eyes swell. “Holy shit. What happened to you?”

“Murphy,” she spits.

Understanding floods Raven’s face and she shakes her head. “I _told_ you not to eat his stupid fudge. Sorry, but I wasn’t going down for that.”

“Whatever,” Clarke huffs. They’re past that now. “Do you have any idea how to get this shit out of my hair?”

“You should leave it,” Bellamy says from the table. His laughter has quieted down, but he’s still grinning. “It looks good, Princess. Hot, even. Very punk rock.”

“Shut up,” she snaps, much to his amusement. Her eyes cut to Raven helplessly.

“Hair isn’t my specialty,” Raven says, drying out the bowl with a dishrag. “But try Harper. She’s dyed hers before. I think she’s home today.”

Clarke thanks her before she dashes upstairs. She texts Roan that she’s having a personal crisis and will be coming in late. Then she slips on her shoes, grabs her purse, and heads straight to Miller and Harper’s apartment on the 4th floor.

Bryan answers the door, half-awake. His expression flashes with shock, but he wisely doesn’t comment on her hair, just directs her toward Harper’s room. Clarke knocks and waits for her soft “come in” before she enters.

Harper is more sympathetic than Clarke’s roommates. She winces instead of laughs and even calls Murphy a dick for going for Clarke’s hair as revenge. She once dyed her hair purple after going through a bad break-up.

“A _stupid_ coping mechanism,” she admits. “But I was sixteen, so.”

“So you know how to fix it?” Clarke prods.

“Don’t kill me,” Harper says. “But I think you should leave it in. You’d have to bleach it to get the color out immediately and it will seriously damage your hair. Just let it fade. It doesn’t look bad, I promise.”

Clarke has to admit she doesn’t _hate_ it either. She even had pink tips once. But she can’t walk into the Azgeda corporate office looking like an anime character.

Harper helps her wind her hair into a tight bun. Then she lends Clarke a thick headband to cover up the rest. The back of her hair is still noticeably pink, but it’s a temporary solution. Harper instructs her to wash her hair with lemon juice for a few weeks and the color should fade.

After leaving Harper’s, Clarke calls for an Uber to take her to work. She gets her ass chewed out by the Ice Bitch for being late, but Nia doesn’t notice the dye job. Roan is the only one that outright asks what the hell she did to her hair. Clarke snaps at him to mind his business.

At her desk, Clarke risks getting into more trouble as she discretely texts Bellamy. _I need 2 prank Murphy back. And ur going to help me._

Her phone buzzes with his reply. _What’s in it for me?_

 _What do you want?_ Clarke hastily adds, _Within reason._

_I’ll think of smthing. Let’s settle for an IOU._

_Deal,_ Clarke agrees. _So you’ll help me get back at Murphy?_

_The cockroach won’t know what hit him._

* * *

A bullhorn pierces the air, slicing through the roar of the crowd. Clarke’s ears are left ringing and for a moment, she regrets showing up.

It isn’t her usual scene. Come to think of it, a dingy basement with crumbling stairs and suspicious stains on the floor isn’t _anyone’s_ scene unless they’re looking to be murdered.

The owner of the bullhorn stands up on a chair to address the room. “What’s up, bros and hoes? I’m Dax and welcome to The Ring!”

Cheers and stomps rumble all around them. Beside her, Murphy is hollering among them. Dax waits for the noise to die down before he continues. “You know how it goes. I’m your ringmaster, kids. I call the fight. For those that are new, the rules are simple: don’t touch the fighters, no bet switching and stay the _fuck_ outta the ring!” 

“Keep your money on you,” Raven mutters, appearing on Clarke’s other side. She has a smudge of grease on her cheek.

Clarke’s eyebrows lift in surprise. “We’re not betting on Bellamy?”

“Not unless you wanna join the fan club,” she says. Raven nods her chin to the side. Clarke follows in the direction she’s pointing to the booth where the bets are being placed and money handed over.

There’s a long line leading up to Bellamy’s section, where Miller is taking the bets down. The line is mostly girls, many of them attractive. These must be the groupies Raven was referring to before. 

“Everyone wants a piece of Daddy,” Murphy mocks and Raven gags to herself. He leans over Clarke to leer at Raven, a smirk on his lips. “The grease monkey look is hot, Reyes.”

Clarke gestures at the smudge on her face and Raven wipes it off with the underside of her shirt. “Bite me, Murphy.”

“I’d love to,” he purrs.

Clarke has been curious about Bellamy’s midnight matches. Since she moved in, she hasn’t gotten the chance to witness him in action. Bellamy only participates in the underground matches once a month, though he used to fight more when he needed the cash.

Now Bellamy has a full-time job at the Grounders boxing gym. He teaches self-defense and boxing classes to kids eager to learn. He gained his experience from amateur boxing for years, both in and out of high school. According to Bellamy, he had a short temper when he was younger and got into a lot of fights. Then his high school counselor, Pike, suggested he channel his aggression into a contact sport.

The secret fighting matches are held in basements around Polis. Their location is given an hour prior to the fights and only circulates to members of the Ring. Most fighters are college kids, but the Ring extended to honorary members, like Bellamy and Miller.

Back at their apartment, Bellamy announced his intention to fight that night. Clarke had jumped at the chance to see the match and their roommates had come along for support.

After the bets are settled, Raven links her arm with Clarke to guide them through the thick clump of people. Murphy follows at her heels. Raven leads them to where Miller and Bryan are standing in a slim, open space to watch the fight.

Another obnoxious blare of the bullhorn and Dax calls for the match to begin. “We have some new blood tonight! Let’s hear it for Polis U’s star wrestler, Tristan Briar!”

A man walks through a doorway in the back of the room, greeted by a mix of applause and boos. His expression is hard, unreadable, and his eyes flat. He bares his teeth like he’s out for blood. Clarke doesn’t like the sight of him, considering he’s going to be fighting _Bellamy_.

Dax gives Tristan a moment for his introduction. He rolls his neck from side to side and cracks his knuckles, playing up his animosity for the crowd. Those in Tristan’s support eat it up, their shouts growing louder off the basement walls.

Dax grins as he brings the bullhorn back to his mouth. “Our next fighter needs no introduction. Get your money ready, gents and drop your panties, ladies. Here is Bellamy ‘The King’ Blake!”  

The volume in the basement becomes deafening. Clarke winces, but cheers along with her friends, her cries lost under the swell.

Bellamy emerges from the back doorway. He struts to the center of the room, both confident and unaffected. Like his opponent, he’s shirtless and barefoot, wearing only loose jogger pants. He smirks at Tristan as they tap their knuckles against each others.

The other fighter is grimacing and growls something inaudible, likely a taunt. Bellamy just laughs, low and cocky. Tristan looks pissed off his goading failed to provoke him.

Silently, Clarke hopes Bellamy’s cockiness isn’t his downfall. She dreads having to watch someone kick the shit out of him and being unable to do anything to stop it.

The horn goes off again and Tristan attacks. He throws himself head-first at Bellamy’s skull. Bellamy dodges before the blow can land and drives his knee up, slamming it into Tristan’s face. The crack of his nose isn’t audible under the audience hollering but they all see the blood spurt out and paint Tristan’s chest.

To his credit, Tristan doesn’t back down. He staggers but shakes off the hit. Bellamy switches to the offensive while he’s regaining his balance and charges at Tristan full force. Tristan is knocked back, but he manages to get his arms around Bellamy’s waist. In a stunning display of strength, Tristan roars as he hefts Bellamy up and flings him over his shoulder.

Clarke’s heart leaps into her throat. Bellamy lands with a thud on his forearms and knees. Tristan tries to slam his foot into Bellamy’s back and keep him down, but Bellamy rolls over quickly. He locks his hand around Tristan’s ankle and yanks hard, dragging him down.  

When Tristan fumbles, Bellamy surges up and punches him with his left hand. He pins Tristan to the ground, lodging his knee into his opponent’s throat. Tristan bucks and flails, but he’s trapped. His face turns red from lack of oxygen. He beats his hand on the floor, signaling defeat.

Bellamy lifts his knee off his windpipe while Tristan gasps for breath. Dax steps into the ring and throws down a red square. When Bellamy gets to his feet, Dax grabs his arm and raises it over his head, declaring him the victor.

“KING! KING! KING!” The voices in the basement chant for them.

Bellamy gives them a lazy smile. He’s trying to catch his breath. His curls are wild, sticking to the crown of sweat around his forehead. Other than that, it’s as if his opponent hadn’t touched him.

Following Dax, Bellamy retreats to the back to collect his night’s winnings. Clarke turns to her friends, eyes wide. “Wow!”

“Congrats,” Miller shouts, smirking. “You’ve popped your fight club cherry!”

Clarke’s nose wrinkles at that description, which makes them laugh. She feels adrenaline racing under her skin like _she_ was the one in the ring. Her heart pounds. That was exhilarating and she’s strangely proud of Bellamy.

Their group leaves the basement, moving outside to wait for Bellamy. The air is cool and refreshing after being crammed in the stuffy room. They stand in a loose circle on the sidewalk, chatting amongst themselves.

About fifteen minutes later, Bellamy exits the warehouse. He’s not alone but has a pretty, brunette girl tucked under his arm. Usually, Clarke would admire the girl’s long legs, but she’s distracted by the disappointment clenching her stomach.

 _It’s nothing,_ Clarke tells herself. She was just looking forward to talking about the fight with Bellamy. Her excitement has dimmed now.

“Hey,” Bellamy greets them. He’s wearing a blue shirt and has mopped up the sweat from his skin. His hair is still messy, having to be flicked out of his face. “Thanks for coming, guys.”

His eyes fall on Clarke. He gives her a grateful smile, but she looks away, chewing on her bottom lip.

“We got a good show,” Murphy drawls. “You murdered that guy’s ass. You don’t even have a scratch on you, man.”

The girl stuck to Bellamy’s side giggles. She combs her fingers through Bellamy’s damp curls and teases, “Just sweat.”

“Congrats,” Raven says flatly, clearly used to Bellamy’s fights by now. “We’re going to the Dead Zone. Are you coming?”

“Nah,” Bellamy declines, smirking down at the girl. “Roma and I are gonna go back to our place. You guys go ahead.”

Clarke catches the respectful salute Murphy gives Bellamy before she turns away. She starts on the sidewalk, catching up to Raven.

Their group crosses the two blocks to the downtown area and arrives at the Dead Zone bar. It’s pretty much a hole in the wall, but her friends seem to be fond of it. The blonde girl behind the bar greets them familiarly when they come in.

As soon as they sit down at a booth, Murphy orders them a round of Kamikaze shots.

Raven raises her shot glass to give a toast. “To Clarke,” she says, smiling. “Here’s to surviving 3 whole weeks.”

“I don’t scare easy,” Clarke jokes.

“Well, it takes balls to put up with us,” Raven replies. “So cheers!”

“Here, here,” Murphy agrees.

Clarke laughs as they all clink glasses. She throws back her shot. Miller offers to get the next round when they drink their way through the first. Raven texts their other friends while they’re there and soon Monty and Jasper show up.

She limits herself to two shots and nurses a beer since she has work in the morning. Murphy rehashes the story of how Clarke ended up with pink hair, hamming it up for the laughing table. She takes their teasing in stride. 

Later, while he’s distracted bickering with Raven about AI’s taking over the world, Jasper leans in and whispers revenge ideas into Clarke’s ear. She absorbs them all.

They stay at the Dead Zone for an hour. Most of them are tipsy when they leave, but Murphy is properly drunk when the three of them walk back to their apartment. He’s also weirdly affectionate, butting into Raven’s head like a cat while they struggle to support his weight between them.

“You’re so unhelpful,” Raven huffs at him.

“You smell like gasoline,” Murphy slurs. He sniffs Raven’s neck and says lower, “I love that smell.”

“Weirdo,” Raven scoffs. Clarke smothers a laugh.

Through teamwork, they manage to carry Murphy’s drunk ass over the threshold of the apartment and dump him on the couch. Clarke follows Raven upstairs, smiling to herself. Not a bad night.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So what do we think? Your comments brighten my week <3 
> 
> Follow my [tumblr](http://www.kombellarke.tumblr.com)


	4. The Bellamy Problem

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay fam I am SHOOKETH at the support for this fic. You guys are amazing! So much love <3 
> 
> Lots of Bellarke in this chapter and some Murven hints. It's a slow burn babey haha. 
> 
> Enjoy!

One month of living with Bellamy and he’s driving her up the wall. Clarke swears he’s doing it on purpose, taunting her with what she can _look_ at, but not touch.

Times like now. Clarke is returning from her yoga class, coated in a thin layer of sweat. She drags herself upstairs and halts at the end of the hallway, where Bellamy is blocking the bathroom’s entrance. Her jaw drops.

He has a pull-up bar attached to the doorway. Bellamy is shirtless as usual, skin shining with his own sweat, as he lifts himself up and down with only his arms’ strength. Low grunts escape him with each movement.

 _You’ve got to be kidding me,_ she huffs to herself.

The frustration Clarke feels is more sexual than an annoyance. Attraction stirs deep and hot in her belly. Fuck Bellamy and his broad, freckled shoulders.

Clarke marches up to him. “Can you do that somewhere else? I need to shower.”

Bellamy quirks his brow up but doesn’t break his pull-up rhythm. “You don’t want to spot me?”

His flirtatious tone is doing things to her stomach. Stupid things, things she’s not supposed to feel for her roommate. “No,” she growls. “What I _want_ is to rinse this sweat off of me.

“Easy, Princess,” he tsks, wearing that smirk she aches to bite off his lips. “Isn’t yoga supposed to make you zen?”

“Well, you’re killing my zen vibe,” Clarke snaps. “Move.”

Bellamy’s brown eyes gleam at her, finding her hostility amusing. He gives in, dropping from the bar back onto his feet. Clarke pushes past him, ignoring his laughter. As soon as the bar is removed, she throws the door shut and locks it.

She loves living with Raven, Murphy, and Bellamy for the most part. They’re great roommates. Considerate and fun and picking up where the other is lacking. Murphy cooks and remembers their favorite foods. Raven can fix _anything._ Bellamy shares his books with her. And Clarke makes personal playlists for them to enjoy during chores.  

The four of them _fit_ together. At the end of the day, they’re all good friends that she’s lucky to have.

There’s just one problem. The problem that she can’t get out of her head. It follows her into the shower and interrupts her dreams with dirty, sexual fantasies. Bellamy fucking Blake.

Clarke has had crushes before. Purely physical just like this. She could ignore her attraction to Bellamy if he wasn’t _everywhere_. Walking around shirtless, leaving his scent behind in every room, and fucking girls on the other side of her wall.

She bought earplugs so she wouldn’t have to listen to the loud moans. But even without the soundtrack, Clarke can’t spot picturing it. Imagining what it’s like to be the girl in Bellamy’s bed, his strong hands pulling her hair, her legs propped on his broad shoulders as he fucks her hard and rough.

Clarke closes her eyes under the hot spray of water. Without realizing it, her left hand has found its way between her legs. The other cups her breast, softly kneading the heavy globe.  She pinches her nipple, rolling the bud in between her fingers until it's peaked and hard.

Soft moans spill out of her as she stimulates her breast. Clarke traces her cunt’s outer lips, feeling how wet she is. As she spreads her folds, she tries to think of Niylah, the pretty blonde girl in her yoga class. She imagines it’s Niylah’s slim fingers instead of her own, circling over her clit.

Slickness soaks her fingers, making the way smooth for Clarke to dip inside her cunt. Two fingers go in easily. Her head falls back against the shower wall, biting her lip on a moan. She crooks her fingers inside herself, rubbing at her sensitive inner walls. It’s good, so good, but not enough.

Clarke abandons tweaking her nipples, switching to her clit. She pushes the nub around, sliding easy thanks to the wet arousal clinging to her lips. Her fingers pump while she works her clit in tandem. Her thighs shake, pleasure building so hot and sweet deep inside. Clarke’s pulse is hammering, her breaths coming hard and fast. It all feels deliciously good, but she’s nowhere near coming.

Normally, she isn’t opposed to a build-up, to draw out her orgasms, but she’s on a time limit. Clarke can’t hog the shower forever. Fuck. She just wants to get off.

Her hips grind onto her fingers desperately, impatiently. A flash fills her head with what she really wants. Golden-brown skin stretched over tight muscles, sweaty dark curls, a smirking mouth. _Bellamy._

Clarke whimpers his name. God, she’d bet he would fuck her good. He’d probably talk filthy in her ear too, all cockiness and his sharp tongue. Clarke moans at the thought of him biting her breast, leaving bruises on her neck and hips. A hot shock of arousal throbs in her cunt.

It’s wrong to be thinking of him while she gets off, but she can’t stop now. Her fingers curl up faster, hitting that sweet spot inside her. Clarke finally feels her orgasm rise up, higher, almost in her reach. Her fingers become Bellamy’s fingers, thick and strong, on her clit and fucking her.

“ _C’mon Clarke,_ ” he murmurs against her throat, _“Come for me. Then you can suck my cock.”_

That’s what does it. Her legs spasm, back arching off the shower wall. Clarke grits her teeth so she won’t cry out. Pleasure ripples through her with her fluttering cunt. She comes while thinking of Bellamy feeding her his dick, fucking her mouth with it.

“Fuck,” Clarke gasps, floating down.

A pounding on the door startles her. “Can you spare some hot water for the rest of us, Princess?” Bellamy shouts.

She’s basking in her afterglow, so the guilt doesn’t hit yet. Bellamy’s gravelly, deep voice just makes her shiver. Damn it. She needs to get laid. Get her mind _off_ of her unavailable roommate. This can’t become a habit.

Clarke shuts the water off and makes a quick exit. Her bedroom door is locked from the other side, so she’s forced to open the main door, wrapped in a towel. Her hair drips wet over her shoulders, a faded pink now.

Bellamy is waiting in the hallway. Instead of moving aside for her, he leans in, caging his arms around the doorway. “You look a little flushed,” he notes.

Clarke tilts her chin up. “Hot water,” she says wryly like it should be obvious. She refuses to look away from his eyes, give any hint of what she was just doing.

Bellamy smirks like he sees right through her. His voice becomes impossibly deeper, suggestive. “Thinking about me in there?”

Clarke’s breath stutters. Her knuckles clench around her towel, grappling to keep her expression under control.

Raven’s voice breaks the heated stare-down they are locked in, coming from behind him. “Stop harassing her, Blake! I _will_ dismantle your car’s engine and make you walk in this blistering heat to work. Try me!”

Bellamy rolls his eyes, but he steps away and lets her pass by to her bedroom.

Clarke gets dressed for work and blow-dries her hair, all the while painfully aware that Bellamy is in the shower. Naked. Is he touching himself too? Does he ever think about _her_ when he does?

 _Stop._ Clarke shakes her head. It doesn’t matter. He’s off limits. That’s likely the only reason she’s so fixated on him anyway. The fact that he’s forbidden. She just needs to find someone else to channel her sexual energy in to.

 

* * *

 

Saturday night arrives after a grueling long week of work. Nia had her on a deadline, which Clarke just managed to complete last night. She stayed well past 5 o’ clock, having to miss out on game night at Miller and Harper’s.

Clarke looks forward to drinking and dancing her stress away. Maybe she’ll even find someone to take home. It’s about time. She hasn’t had sex in two months, since Finn. Her horny switch seems to be always _on_ these days.

The downside of living with three other people is lack of privacy. Clarke has started taking her vibrator into the shower with her, the only place she can get off in peace. Unfortunately, her long showers aren’t appreciated. Bellamy has his own habit of setting a twenty-minute timer for her.

Clarke has trained her body to come during that time. Sometimes twice. A lot of that has to do with fantasizing about Bellamy, but that is going to end _tonight_.

She turns slowly, evaluating herself in the bathroom’s mirror. Clarke chose a snug navy dress for tonight. The low cut makes her boobs look good. Her hair is in loose curls and she’s wearing her chunky black heels that she can dance in.

Murphy wolf-whistles when she comes downstairs. Clarke does a little shimmy for them, laughing. Raven is meeting them later at the club, so it’s just her with the boys.

Bellamy grins. “You clean up nice, Princess.”

“You guys do too,” she says genuinely.

They both look good, all dressed up. She hasn’t seen Bellamy in something other than sweatpants before. That’s her excuse for staring too long. He has on dark jeans, paired with a maroon dress shirt, the sleeves rolled to his elbows.

“Let’s get going, kids,” Murphy orders, pushing himself up from the couch.

Bellamy scoffs. “I’m older than you, Murphy.”

After pulling open the door, Murphy sweeps his hand forward, smirking. “Age before beauty. Come on, old man.”

Bellamy flips him off as he passes through the doorway, Clarke snickering as she follows him. The club they’re headed to is across town. The “old man” doesn’t want to be bothered with the pain in the ass parking, so they forgo taking Bellamy’s car and get an Uber to drop them off instead.

The club, _Nightblood,_ glows with a neon purple light on its entrance, drawing the attention of the entire block. They find Monty, Harper, and Jasper already in line to gain admittance and join them for the half-hour wait.

Clarke is dying for a drink by the time they make it inside. Pulsing lights of every color flash throughout the club and EDM music pounds in the air. Murphy leads the group, shoving and squeezing over to an open table with velvet seats.

The girls collapse onto the chairs, eager to rest their feet after standing in heels. “I’m making a drink run,” Bellamy shouts over the music, “Who wants what?”

Harper orders a Cosmo and Jasper suggests a round of shots for the table. At her turn, Bellamy leans in to speak to Clarke, his lips brushing her ear. “What do you want, Princess? A Screaming Orgasm?”

Clarke leans back to look him, arching her brows as if to ask if he’s serious. Does he think she’s going to blush over that? Bellamy’s laughing eyes hint he’s just screwing with her, trying to rile her up.

She scoffs. “Save that for your groupies, Blake. I’ll take a Long Island Ice Tea.”  

Bellamy disappears into the crowd, headed towards the bar. Clarke tunes back into the conversation happening around the table, ignoring the hum under her skin brought on by Bellamy’s close proximity. The story of how Jasper and Monty burnt down their first apartment distracts her.

When Bellamy returns with a tray of their drinks, Murphy slides a single dollar bill into his belt, much to their amusement. The rest of them help themselves to unload the tray and Bellamy slides in beside Monty with his beer.

Raven arrives sometime later, looking stunning in a green bandage dress. Behind her, she tugs in her date by the hand, a built guy with messy blonde hair. She introduces him as Kyle Wick.

“Kyle _Dick,_ was it?” Murphy asks, pointing dramatically to his ear as if he misheard. Clarke hides her smile behind her hand.

Raven rolls her eyes. “Ignore him,” she mutters to Wick and squeezes in beside Clarke at the table. She reaches for Clarke’s drink and tastes a hearty sip.

“Help yourself,” Clarke teases.

Raven sets down her glass and winks. “Sharing is caring, Clarke.” Her eyeshadow glitters under the club’s lights as she runs her eyes over Clarke approvingly. “You look smoking hot, babe.”

A smile curves her lips. “Me? You’re a goddess, Raven Reyes.” Clarke glances at Wick, engaged in conversation with Jasper, and asks, “Is this the guy you’ve been seeing since I moved in?”

Raven smiles coyly. “Yeah, a little bit. It’s nothing serious. He’s been helping me with the app, one thing lead to another…We’re just having fun.”

Clarke finishes off her Ice Tea and does a few shots before the next round is bought. By then Harper wants to dance, so she links arms with Clarke and Raven, dragging them to the dance floor. Jasper is the only one that follows them at first, bouncing on his toes to the heavy beat and twirling Harper around.

Under the bass thumping in her chest, Clarke loses herself to the music. She loves to dance. While she’s cleaning, while she’s painting, and here where the perspiration sticks to her skin and the world is bright, swirling colors.

She dances with Raven for a while, until Wick swoops in. He wraps his arms around Raven’s waist, turning toward him. Her friend’s smile glints in the dark when Wick dips her at the waist.

Clarke shakes out her hair, her eyes closing as she moves to the rhythm by herself. She dances until her throat is parched and heads back to the table, panting and fanning her flushed cheeks. Murphy is alone, his head bent over his phone.

Clarke chugs down half a bottle of water before she nudges him with her knee. “You’re at a nightclub and you’re looking at your _phone_ , Murphy?”  

Murphy slips his phone back into his pocket and raises his eyes to her, smirking. “There. You have my full attention, Your Highness. Don’t waste it.”

She rolls her eyes. “I’m kind of hungry. Do you want to order something?”

They decide to split a plate of cheese fries. Clarke picks her hair up while she eats, her body temperature slowly cooling down. Murphy is full of his usual snark, but she notices the way his gaze keeping straying behind her like he can’t stop himself.

Curiosity pricks at her. Clarke peers over her shoulder, following Murphy’s line of sight. Straight to where Raven is grinding herself against Wick, his hands grazing up her sides, and his lips pressed to her neck.

Clarke turns back around, catching the jealousy storming in Murphy’s blue eyes before he lowers them. He digs aggressively at his plate of fries and she bites her lip, realization dropping on her. _Oh_.

His friend is clearly upset. Right now, that’s more important than minding her business.

“She says they’re not serious,” Clarke admits quietly.

Murphy stiffens. His stare shoots up to hers, a scowl twisting his mouth. “Did I ask?” He demands.

Clarke just tilts her head, holding his eyes. She hopes Murphy can read the sympathy she has for him, not pity. Gradually, Murphy’s hackles start to fall and he looks wounded instead of hostile, like a feral animal with its foot caught in a trap.

She thinks not many people get to see John Murphy like this, if any. Clarke feels blind for not realizing how he feels about Raven. She’s been living with them for over a month. Either Murphy is a great actor or she’s been too caught up in her own shit to notice.

Clarke climbs out of the table and extends her hand to him. “C’mon. Dance with me.”

Murphy sighs like he’s being put out, but drags himself up. He lets her guide them to the packed dance floor. Clarke makes sure to find a spot where Raven and Wick are hidden from view, to take Murphy’s mind off the couple.

Murphy finds his rhythm easily. He’s not as flashy as Jasper with his dancing, but he knows how to move his hips. Then Murphy takes her hand, spinning her outward, and brings her smoothly back in. He’s _good_. His hands find her waist, keeping a respectable space between their bodies.

Clarke rests her arms comfortably on her shoulders. “I’m impressed,” she tells him.

“As you should be,” Murphy replies. “I’m a man of many talents.”

“Any girl’s dream,” she teases and winks.

Murphy’s answering smile is small but genuine. She can’t mend his heartache. That’s out of her hands. But she could be a good friend, the way he’s always been for her.

As they dance, a waiter winds through the crowd with Jell-O shots on a tray. Clarke grabs a handful for her and Murphy. She’s finally starting to feel a buzz. The club is brighter, the music better. She's carefree. At some point, Clarke turns so her back is to Murphy’s chest. They've gone out to clubs before, as friends, so she thinks nothing of it as she slides against him.

That is until Clarke feels the burning press of someone’s gaze on her. Her eyes lock with Bellamy across the floor.

He has a girl pressed against him, of course. Bent at the waist, his large hands on her hips. Clarke wishes she didn’t care, that she could squash this stupid crush in her fist. But she does.

His curls are untamed, how she likes them, sticking to his sweaty forehead. Lips parted open and his eyes slightly glassy from the alcohol. Even then, Clarke feels his stare like the hot touch of a hand to her back, holding her in place.

Everyone else in the club disappears. It’s just them, him and her.

The space between them crackles with electricity. As their gaze doesn’t break, doesn’t become any less piercing, she knows for sure. Bellamy wants her too.  

Suddenly, there’s no air in her lungs. Clarke turns away, severing their connection before she charges across the room and jumps him, right here. She can’t. In her muddled brain, she struggles to remember her reasons.

No. She _promised_ Raven. And they have a really good thing going, the four of them. Clarke doesn’t want to ruin that. She can fight her body’s attraction. Preferably, by putting something shiny and new in its sight.

Clarke leans in to speak into Murphy’s ear. “Let’s play a game. If you could pick someone here for me to hook up with, who would it be?”

Murphy raises a brow, surprised. “You need _my_ help getting laid?”

She shrugs. “I’m out of practice. Help is appreciated.”

He nods, agreeing with this, apparently. His eyes comb over the dance floor and the bar, surveying the prospects. “There.” He points with his chin. “Girl in the leather skirt, tattoos, great ass. Just your type.”

Clarke doesn’t argue, because he’s not wrong. That does sound like her type. She looks until she finds her. The girl is standing at the bar, tattoos visible on her slender arms with brown hair spilling down her back. She’s wearing spiked stilettos and looks kind of dangerous. Hot.

Clarke hums in approval. She doesn’t need to see Murphy’s face to know the smug expression he has on.

“If you don’t go for it,” he murmurs, “ _I_ will.”

She scoffs. “Dibs.”

Murphy nudges her forward and Clarke goes, pushing through the crowd of bodies. The alcohol keeps her from being nervous, but she hasn’t forgotten how long it’s been since she’s done this. Hitting on total strangers.

Clarke leans against the bar, near the tattooed girl. She has a few moves in her repertoire that she uses. When the bartender swings by, Clarke orders another Long Island Ice Tea and then slowly goes about winding her hair up, her fingers skimming up the nape of her neck.

It’s kind of ridiculous but has worked on gaining attention. When Clarke glances over, the girl is already staring at her through pretty, almond-shaped brown eyes. Interested.

Clarke smiles slyly and introduces herself, her voice husky. “Hi. I’m Clarke.”

The girl looks her up and down, like appraising prey and lingers on her cleavage. Her smile is sharp. “Anya.”

Clarke takes a slow sip of her drink when it arrives, licking her bottom lip. Her eyes fall on Anya’s empty martini glass. “Can I get you another, Anya?”

Anya pushes her glass forward, her nails blood red. She slides off of her stool, snatching her clutch off the bar. Clarke waits as Anya passes her and then leans in, her breath brushing Clarke’s neck. “Let’s cut the bullshit. Do you want to get out of here?”

A grin curls Clarke’s mouth. She feels a tingle of excitement in her stomach, the prospect of a one-night-stand. “Yes. I do.”

Clarke walks out with Anya. She only stops by the table for her purse, where Murphy silently applauds her and she rolls her eyes before leaving, a new spring in her step.

 

* * *

 

She climbs downstairs the next morning, a little hungover and a lot lighter.

After leaving the nightclub, they took a car to Anya’s place, not far from where Roan lives, in the upscale neighborhood. Anya pounced on her in the high-rise elevator with fierce kisses, snapping the tie out of Clarke’s hair to run her fingers through.

Clarke had given as good as she got, sucking a bruise onto Anya’s throat and getting her hands under the tight leather skirt before they made it into the condo. She didn’t get a chance to admire the nice digs. They ripped each other’s clothes off right in the doorway and had gone at it on the sleek leather sofa.  

After, Clarke had left and gotten a ride home. She didn’t ask for Anya’s number and the girl let her slink off without comment. Clean break, easy, uncomplicated. Just casual sex. It was _exactly_ what Clarke needed.

She enters the kitchen, not expecting her roommates to be awake. They had stayed out drinking and partying later than her. But Bellamy is standing at the coffee maker. Her stomach flips, staring at his bare back.

With a hot flash, Clarke remembers their _moment_ on the dance floor. Then Bellamy turns around, sensing her presence just standing there like a creep. He smiles, looking sleepy behind his glasses.

“Hey,” he says, morning gravel in his voice. “Coffee?”

“Yeah, thanks.” Clarke shoots him a smile before he turns away.

She takes a seat at the small breakfast table as Bellamy pours in the grounds. Raven wasn’t messing around that first day. Bellamy is possessive of the coffee maker he brought with him when he moved in. He likes his brew a certain way.

Bellamy sets her filled mug down, dark and sweet as she likes it. When she takes a sip, an involuntary moan escapes her. His coffee is somehow _better_ than when she makes it. Clarke swallows more greedily. She catches a flash of Bellamy’s grin. His eyes linger on her, but it’s too much, too intense for the early morning. Clarke looks down at her mug and Bellamy goes about pouring his own cup.

This is nothing like the comfortable silence they shared that night on the roof, passing a joint back and forth. The air in the kitchen hums with tension. Clarke can practically sense it tingling across her skin. Not just her own desire, but his too.

Bellamy sits down across from her. It doesn’t take long for him to crack the silence. “Didn’t spend the night?”

A beat passes before recognition sets in. He’s talking about Anya. Her cheeks heat up against her will. “Obviously not.”

“ _I_ wouldn’t kick you out of bed,” he comments, smirk in place.

Clarke raises her eyes to glare at him. “ _Bellamy_ —”

He laughs. “Relax, Princess. I’m glad you decided to take my advice, get back out there. Finn isn’t worth hiding yourself away for.” His gaze warms. “You looked like you had a good time.”

Her muscles unclench as they move on to talking about the club. “I did. Who knew Murphy was such a good dancer?”

Bellamy turns quiet a moment, studying her with those dark, gorgeous eyes. “You two aren’t…?” He trails off meaningfully.

A spark lights up inside her. Clarke should set him straight, but what comes out of her mouth is, “Why? Would it bother you if we were?”

Her suggestive tone matches his. Clarke watches something flash in Bellamy’s eyes, something she has no right to hope is, at the least, discomfort. His jaw twitches.

“Yes,” he admits gruffly.

Clarke’s breath stutters, her brain short-circuiting. She feels that rough sound pulse in between her legs. All her mind can focus on is what his voice sounds like during sex. Does Bellamy growl when his cock is being sucked? What noise does he make when he comes?

Bellamy's eyes drop to her lips. They're glazed over with desire. Clarke's heart jumps. Stupid to think sleeping with a stranger would cure her of this. Her attraction to Bellamy is a pulse beating through her own body. Longing opens a pit in her stomach, making her feel hollow inside. She needs to taste him, just lean over the table and lick his full bottom lip...

Movement in her peripheral vision snaps Clarke out of that dangerous trance. An unfamiliar girl steps into the kitchen, her blue eyes looking wide awake. She’s wearing what Clarke identifies as one of Bellamy’s shirts and nothing else.

“There you are,” she says, upon seeing Bellamy.

Bellamy straightens up, shock on his face before he relaxes. “Bree. Hey.”

Her attraction turns to ice in her veins. This is Bellamy’s hookup. Clarke has the irrational urge to tell Bree to get the hell out of their kitchen before she calms down. Those are just her hormones talking. Bellamy isn't hers, not that she wants him to be. His attraction to her makes her feel good, Clarke can admit. But it's better this way for everyone, for their friendship, too. Bellamy is free to sleep with whoever he wants. 

Clarke forces a smile on her face. “Hi, I’m Clarke. Do you want some coffee?”

Bellamy shoots her an annoyed look, but Bree brightens up. “Yeah, that would be great, thanks!”

She stands up to retrieve another mug from the cabinet and fills it up. Bree crosses the room over to Bellamy and plants herself in his lap, her arms sliding around his neck. Clarke notices the way Bellamy’s back goes rigid.

She can’t help but stare, witnessing Bellamy interact with one of his hookups. She feels like a scientist observing a fascinating test subject. Is he uncomfortable because Clarke is here or because he doesn’t like the affection?

She hands off the mug to Bree and rinses out of her own before making a quick retreat out of the kitchen. As Clarke walks away, she hears Bree asking him about breakfast.

“I don’t cook,” he says flatly. “And if you touch our food, Raven will charge you.”

Bree laughs like this is a joke. “Well, let’s go out somewhere. Get some real coffee.”

Clarke smirks to herself. In her mind, she can picture Bellamy’s affronted expression. She goes upstairs to have a shower and wash all of last night off of her. Once she’s dressed, she resumes her normal routine of collecting her dirty clothes for laundry day.

When Clarke returns to their apartment, the kitchen is empty. She assumes Murphy is still passed out upstairs. She heard Raven went home with Wick. In the living room is where she finds Bellamy, reading a book in the swivel chair. The spine reads _I, Claudius_ by Robert Graves. 

He glares when he sees her. “For future reference,” Bellamy starts, aggravated, “let’s not invite _my_ guests to stay for coffee. I don’t want them getting the wrong idea.”

Clarke’s brow raises in curiosity. “What idea is that?”

“Do I really need to explain that to you?” He counters, gesturing at her. “You didn’t even sleep over at that girl’s place. I let Bree crash here, but that’s it. Anything else would suggest I want to see more of her.”

Clarke _can_ understand that. She had done it herself. But her one-night-stand was about getting scratching an itch. A step closer to being over Finn. She thinks it’s different for Bellamy, more of a lifestyle choice.

“And you don’t,” she clarifies. “Just once.”

Bellamy shrugs, setting his book on the table. “With her, yeah. Sometimes it can be more often. But it’s just sex, not dating. Not a commitment.”

His words remind her of Raven’s about Wick. _It’s nothing serious. We’re just having fun_. Maybe Bellamy was right about the “fuck love club”. Her roommates did agree to hang her painting by the front door. Clarke gets the sense that they have all been spurned by love and now they keep a safe distance.

Surprisingly, it makes Clarke feel less alone, less like a jaded asshole. She isn’t looking for romance and isn’t sure she ever wants to find it again. She's having a hard enough time trusting her own judgment, let alone giving her heart to someone that can betray her, walk away or disappear forever. 

Clarke moves to sit on the couch, facing him. “Like with Echo.”

Bellamy's expression darkens with a mix of frustration and guilt. “I thought it was like that. When we started hooking up, I told her upfront it was sex. Nothing else.  I wasn’t going to change my mind, but I guess she didn’t believe me.”

“That’s what happens,” she mutters. “There's always someone that needs the other person more than they need them.”

Bellamy doesn’t call her out on her dark view. He doesn’t judge her or seem to disagree with her. From the pained look in his eyes, he understands that, has lived through it.

“I didn’t mean to hurt her,” he says, speaking to his hands clasped in front of him. “It was supposed to work for both of us. Now I’m the asshole that broke her heart.” A humorless smile curves his lips. “You know she told me that she had never been in love before? I was her first. Lucky girl.”

Clarke frowns, hearing the guilt layered in his tone. “Hey. That isn’t your fault, Bellamy. We can’t help who we fall for. Love is bullshit like that. Don’t feel bad for not _forcing_ yourself to love someone.”

Bellamy turns his eyes to hers. “Do you not hate Finn for what he did to you?”

She pauses to think about it. “Some days I do. But Finn hurt me on purpose. He didn’t care about my feelings at all. Did _you_ hurt Echo on purpose?”

“No,” Bellamy says immediately. She can tell he means it. "But I should have—"

"Bellamy, stop." Clarke reaches out, laying a hand on his arm. "There's no point in torturing yourself. Trust me, Echo will be okay. She’ll hurt for a little while, but she’ll move on. It would be worse if you lied to her or lead her on. But you didn’t. One day, she might even thank you for that.”

His eyes are still clouded by guilt, but Bellamy allows a half-smile at her. “Thanks," he says quietly. "It’d be so much easier if we could all be honest instead of hiding behind our own bullshit.”

She shrugs. “I don’t want to be lied to ever again.”

“I'll never lie to you,” he murmurs, holding her stare so intensely that Clarke shivers. “And you don’t lie to me. No matter how much the truth fucking hurts.”

“I won’t,” Clarke says. “I promise.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Ngl it's only day 2 of the hiatus and I'm dying haha. Someone needs to write a fic about Bellarke day trip 2.0 to get us through. If you guys have any s6 recs, let me know ;-) 
> 
>  
> 
> Follow me on [tumblr](http://www.kombellarke.tumblr.com) <3


	5. Midnight Fever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She asks quietly, “What if I don’t want to be careful anymore?”
> 
> Bellamy moves in closer, eliminating the slim space between them. His bare chest grazes hers. Clarke has to tilt her head back to look at him and her pulse is pounding like an alarm at his proximity. Bellamy dips his head, his voice so low it’s a secret between them.
> 
> “Is that right?” His words brush her parted lips, their noses bumping. An inch and their mouths would touch. “You want this now?”
> 
> She’s wanted this since the day she met him. That’s the naked truth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi fam! Whew, this is a big chapter. Lots of Bellarke and sexy times finally! I can't wait for you guys to read it :-) 
> 
> Thanks again for all of your lovely comments <3 You guys are the best. 
> 
> Enjoy!

They waited a month, hoping to lull Murphy into a false sense of security since he declared their prank war. Across the kitchen table, Clarke meets Bellamy’s eyes, his own flickering with mischief. Her expression is probably similar.

“What are you two smirking at?” Raven asks, squinting at them suspiciously.

“Nothing,” Clarke says, hiding her amusement behind her coffee cup. Bellamy mouths at her, “ _any second now_ ” and she bites her lip so she won’t laugh. She likes this feeling like she and Bellamy have a secret.

From beside her, Harper mentions the new omelet she’s excited to try at brunch, scrolling through Eden’s Instagram feed on her phone. Raven leans over her shoulder to see, but they’re interrupted by a loud yell from upstairs.

“Son of a bitch!” Murphy shouts.

They hear him pounding down the stairs. Murphy bursts into the kitchen completely nude and dripping wet from the shower. He throws down a cooking magazine, which had replaced his towel.

Clarke bursts out laughing while Harper lets out a shriek and shields her eyes. “Oh my god. Murphy, where are your clothes?”

Raven is smirking at whatever misfortune befell on him, but Clarke doesn’t miss the way her eyes drink in Murphy's body before quickly darting away. Clarke bets if she were the type, Raven Reyes would be blushing right now. Instead, she pretends to scrub at a clean mug in the sink.

Fuming, Murphy points at Clarke and Bellamy. “Ask them!”

Bellamy snorts, setting down his mug of coffee. “Why are you blaming me? This prank war is between the two of you.”

“Bullshit!” Murphy snaps. “I _know_ you helped her.”

Harper peeks at them from between her fingers. “Helped her do what?”

“Get back at me,” he retorts. He narrows his eyes at Clarke. “Where the fuck are my clothes, Princess?”

Bellamy answers when she can’t, unable to stop her laughter. “I’d check the roof,” he suggests casually. “There’s been a flag raised in your honor, Murphy.”

Murphy shakes his head, glaring furiously at him. “Whose side are you on, man? Bros before hoes! That’s in the roommate code!”

“It’s not,” Clarke disagrees.

“Aww,” Raven taunts, turning away from the sink. “Is there trouble in paradise, boys?”

“Yes!” Murphy says with enough spite that Clarke laughs again and Bellamy kicks her ankle under the table. “You’re on my shit list too, Blake! You better watch your back!”

Bellamy raises his arms, adopting an innocent expression. “I didn’t do anything!”

He storms out of the kitchen, flipping them off on his way out. When it’s safe, Harper lowers her hands and glances at Raven, distraught. “Did Murphamy just break-up?”

Raven nods back at her gravely. “I think so.”

Bellamy stands up from the table, pointing a finger at Clarke. “He’s going to put weird shit in my food now. You _so_ owe me.”

He rinses out his mug and takes his leave as well as Clarke smirks to herself. It was definitely worth it. She had a lot of fun stealing Murphy’s clothes from his room the night before and tying them together with Bellamy. It was _his_ idea to turn his underwear into a flag and string them up on the roof.

“I could not survive living here,” Harper mutters.

Clarke glances at her curiously. “You and Miller don’t pull pranks on each other? I thought that was a roommate thing.”

“Nah,” Harper says. “The worst thing we do is make up ghost stories to scare the shit out of each other.”

“Amateurs,” Clarke teases.

Her and Raven get dressed to go with Harper to brunch. It’s become a tradition since she moved in and Clarke looks forward to the girls’ time every week. She didn’t realize how much she needed it until she started living with two boys.

Raven says she didn’t do any of this before meeting Harper, but now she loves indulging in girly stuff, away from the “grease fest” she works in. Clarke agrees it’s a refreshing change to get pedicures and go shopping with the girls, things she feels like she missed out on doing with her mom.

After brunch and walking around the shops, the girls go back to Harper and Miller’s place. Miller is out with Bryan, so they have the place to themselves. Harper digs out the stash of weed Monty thinks she doesn’t know about and Clarke rolls them joints. They spend the afternoon lazy, smoking while watching old America’s Next Top Model episodes in Harper’s living room. Once the hunger sets in, they bake cookies and get messy with flour on the faces and in their hair.

It might be the perfect day. Clarke only thinks of her dad once. She wishes he could have met her new friends. He would have loved them, just like she does. 

 

* * *

 

Clarke doesn’t consider herself a perfectionist. She’s hard on herself about always giving one hundred percent at work and she’ll redraw something until it comes out just right. But there are some areas of her life that don’t have to be perfect and she tries to be okay with that.

Only it’s after one in the morning and she can’t sleep. Her conversation with her mom earlier that night leaves Clarke restless. They’ve never been great at communicating, but now without her dad, the gap between them feels even more obvious. It needles at her, knowing something is off and as Abby’s daughter, it’s on her to fix it.

She calls at least once a week, wanting to stay in touch. Her mom was so distant on the phone she might as well have skipped it. Clarke can’t keep their family—what’s left of it anyway—together if her mom won’t make an effort too. Is it really so unbearable for her mom to talk to her for more than ten minutes at a time? 

Clarke sketches on her bed, drawing the wide edges of her dad’s smile and the creases in the corner of his eyes. She doesn’t want to forget a single detail. Her movements are sharp as a result of the agitation pounding in her blood.

Someone knocks on her bedroom door. “Come in,” Clarke calls softly.

The door creaks open and Bellamy steps inside. “Good. You’re awake.”

She sets her charcoal aside to look up at him. Bellamy walks over, taking a seat on her bed. His eyes catch sight of her sketch, studying it in the dim glow of the fairy lights strung above her bed. “Your dad?”

Clarke nods.

Bellamy glances from the drawing to her, his lips curving up. “You look just like him.”

She smiles at that, tucking her knees into her chest and wrapping her arms around them. “Yeah. We had the same eyes, the same smile. My dad liked to draw too. He was pretty good at it.”

Bellamy hums, a smirk forming on his face. He reaches out to snap the band of her knee-high socks against her leg. “Nice socks, Princess.”

They’re purple galaxy-print socks. Her favorite. Clarke kicks at him. “Don’t be jealous, Bell. We can get you a pair.”

His hand catches her ankle before her foot can land the next kick. His smirk is wicked now. Clarke recognizes the playful glint in his dark eyes. She tries to tug her foot free, but he’s too strong. Bellamy pulls her toward him and with a shriek, Clarke lands in his lap.

She falls right into the trap. Bellamy starts tickling her sensitive thighs and behind her knees with both hands. Her laughter sputters out of her, loud and uncontrollable. Clarke squirms under his hands’ attack until tears dampen her eyes from laughing so hard.

“Stop!” Clarke gasps, breathless. “Bellamy, knock it off!”

“Shh,” Bellamy hushes her pealing laughter like he isn’t the one responsible for it. “You’ll wake everyone up.”

“Then stop tickling me!” She cries.

Bellamy laughs at her, his low and soft. Finally, he stops. He stares down at her, still grinning widely, his hands resting on her upper thighs. As Clarke catches her breath, she can think of nothing else but those warm, large hands on her skin.

Heat pools in her cheeks. She nudges Bellamy with her knee. “What was that for, you asshole?”

Bellamy shrugs, his grin unapologetic. “Figured you could use a distraction.”

Realization drops on her. He’s talking about her dad. Bellamy must have seen how upset she looked when he came in. Clarke feels bad for calling him an asshole when he was actually being _sweet_.

His hands are still resting on her thighs. Clarke feels the tingle all through her legs. She flails to find her words for a minute. “Is that why you came in here? To make fun of my cool socks?”

“Actually, no,” Bellamy says. “I came in here to ask if you want to go for a swim.”

Her eyebrow arches up. “Now?”

“Yeah, why not? The pool is empty. And I have a key.”

Clarke snorts. “Of course you do. Okay, I’ll meet you in a minute.”

Bellamy walks out to let her change. Her and Bellamy alone in an empty pool sounds like dangerous territory, but Clarke doesn’t let herself overanalyze the situation. A midnight swim sounds great and yeah, maybe she wants an excuse to see her hot roommate in his bathing suit. Whatever. She’s only human.

Clarke slips into her bikini, well aware that her pulse is fluttering because she’s looking forward to Bellamy’s reaction. It doesn’t disappoint. Bellamy is waiting by the front door in his swimming trunks. He glances up as she descends the stairs and his eyes widen.

She bites her lip so she won’t smirk. Clarke is pretty proud of her rack and a thrill goes through her at the way Bellamy’s eyes cling to her cleavage in her bikini top.

 _I want to fuck you_ , he told her that first night at the roof. She hasn’t forgotten. The knowledge feels like power right at her fingertips. She could _have_ Bellamy if she wants. By the way he can’t take his eyes off of her body, she knows he wouldn’t deny her anything. All she has to is ask.

Clarke tilts her head as she approaches him. “See something you like, Blake?”

His eyes rake up slowly from her legs to her stomach and chest, then up to her face. “You know I do,” he admits huskily, then shakes his head. “Don’t tease me if you’re not going to follow through, Princess.”

Clarke smiles coyly. The heat in Bellamy’s gaze is drawing her in, but she forces herself to wind around him and head out the front door, all the while feeling his hungry stare on her body. Her stomach flips the entire trip down to the enclosed pool.

Bellamy uses his key to unlock the iron gates. She doesn’t bother asking where he got it from. The pool area is entirely vacant at this time of night. There’s something exciting about sneaking in, an old rush Clarke hasn’t felt in a long time. She can’t remember the last time she did something reckless just for fun.

The pool glows a neon blue, casting a hue against their skin. Clarke sets her keys and her phone down on a plastic table, slipping out of her flip-flops. She pulls her hair into a high-ponytail while Bellamy dives into the deep-end, sending a ripple through the still water.

He breaks through the surface, shaking his dripping curls out of his eyes. “Get in here, Clarke, before I _drag_ you in.”

She rolls her eyes at the threat, but doesn’t put it past Bellamy to throw her in, either. When she’s ready, Clarke takes a running start and splashes into the water. The summer air is warm outside and it makes the dip that much more refreshing. Clarke sinks down to the bottom and lets herself linger for a moment.

Under the water is like hitting mute on the rest of the world. There are no sounds but her own heartbeat. Clarke feels that ache for her dad that never leaves her. But this time, she isn’t facing the night sky or a voicemail box alone. She has her friends. Tonight, she has Bellamy.

Clarke swims to the surface and takes a large gulp of air into her lungs. Bellamy nods his approval at her. Nothing’s changed on the outside. She just feels different. Feels good. And Bellamy smiles like he can sense it.

He swims over to her, using broad arm strokes while she bobs up and down. Once he’s in front of her, Clarke hooks her legs around his to keep herself afloat. Bellamy’s hands find her waist, his fingers splayed on her hips.

“Careful, Princess,” he warns her in the same tone as before.

Clarke skims her hands up from his shoulders, goose-bumps breaking out over his skin from her touch. That gives her a bigger rush. She combs Bellamy’s curls out of his eyes, liking the way the pool’s light reflects in them.

She asks quietly, “What if I don’t want to be careful anymore?”

Bellamy moves in closer, eliminating the slim space between them. His bare chest grazes hers. Clarke has to tilt her head back to look at him and her pulse is pounding like an alarm at his proximity. Bellamy dips his head, his voice so low it’s a secret between them.

“Is that right?” His words brush her parted lips, their noses bumping. An inch and their mouths would touch. “You want _this_ now?”

She’s wanted this since the day she met him. That’s the naked truth. But Clarke knows what he’s really asking. It’s a layered question. Is she sure? Does she want to cross that line? Sex can be just sex. They both know that, but they live together. It’s complicated.

There’s no question what Bellamy wants, but he’s leaving it up to her. He’ll back off if she tells him to and there’s power in that too. Desire beats in her blood, simmering hot despite being submerged in cool water.

Clarke has no real answers to his question. She just knows what she wants.

Bellamy’s hands skate up to her bare sides, making her shiver and her toes curl in the water. “Looking at you, Princess,” he murmurs.

She kisses him. Her fingers grip his wet curls, pulling his face down to her. Clarke sucks on his bottom lip and Bellamy opens for her, groaning softly. He kisses her back, hot and rough, hands digging into her hips. Just like she always imagined he’d be. Just the right amount of aggressive as his tongue licks into her mouth.

He grows hard in between them. Clarke hitches her legs around his waist, rolling her hips against him. Bellamy growls low in his throat and she _feels_ that sound in her stomach, in her cunt. His large hands cup her ass, squeezing hard. Clarke moans into his mouth.

She’s so wet for him. Even her grinding on his cock through his swimming trunks is doing it for her. The friction pulses in her cunt.

One of Bellamy’s hands remain cupping her ass while the other wraps around the back of her neck, deepening their kiss. It isn’t where she wants it, not yet. But Clarke’s mind flashes with the possibility of Bellamy’s hand wrapped around her throat as he fucks her or his strong fingers yanking on her hair.

Bellamy breaks the kiss and Clarke gasps, struggling for breaths she can’t catch. “Easy,” he murmurs, squeezing her neck lightly. “I got you, Clarke. I got you.”

He sucks under her jaw, nipping at the skin. Clarke tilts her head back to give him better access. She didn’t notice they had moved until she feels the pool wall pressed to her back. Bellamy takes quick, biting kisses down her throat. He stops at the top of her breast, sucking hard enough to bruise. She aches for his mouth on her tits.

Clarke arches her back off the wall, thrusting her chest forward into his. Bellamy smiles against her collarbone, smug. “Yeah? Is that where you want me?”

“Yes,” she whispers, almost a whine.

Bellamy’s hands cradle her breasts. His thumbs press into her beaded nipples over the thin cloth of her bikini. “Here?” He taunts.

“Now who’s being a tease?” Clarke mutters, lifting her head to glare at him.

Bellamy chuckles darkly. His eyes are black, all pupil. “Oh no, Clarke. This isn’t a tease. I always follow through. I just wanna hear those pretty lips of yours say it.”

His fingers find the knot of her bikini top, loosening it. Her breaths quicken despite her efforts not to encourage his taunting. Bellamy’s grin is sharp as he slips the top off of her, throwing it onto the floor above them. His eyes fall to her breasts, hunger slackening his expression.

She shivers when the air hits her, but Bellamy’s large hands quickly mold around her tits. “Fuck,” he mutters, squeezing around her. “You’re so hot, Clarke.”

“Bell,” she pleads. “Your mouth. _Please_. I need it.”

He shoots a smirk at her and it’s unfair how sexy she finds his cockiness. Then his lips close around her nipple and her brief annoyance fades. Clarke moans as his wet tongue washes over the hard peak. His other hand kneads her breast before tweaking her nipple and rolling it between his fingertips.

It feels so good, his rough fingers better than her own. She’s drenched for him, the blood rushing through her veins. _Yes,_ is all that she thinks, and _finally_.

Bellamy sucks on her, but it’s the graze of his teeth makes Clarke cry out. Bellamy notices. He pulls off to look at her under his lashes, half surprised and half amused. “Oh yeah? Is that what gets you hot, Princess?”

Before she can respond, they both hear the gate rattling. Someone enters the pool area and shines a flashlight directly at them. “The pool is closed,” a deep, irked voice informs them.

Bellamy turns so his back covers her. Clarke has to clamp her hand over her mouth so she won’t giggle. He shields his eyes from the bright light. “Show’s over. We’ll be out in a sec.”

The security guard grumbles, likely at Bellamy’s attitude. But he clicks off the flashlight. Bellamy turns back, reaching up to retrieve Clarke’s bikini top. He keeps her shielded as Clarke reties it, then they both climb out and grab their things.

Clarke avoids eye contact with the gruff security guard, Bellamy’s hand on her back as they pass by him through the gate. She’s embarrassed at being caught topless in a semi-public pool. At least it was only one man and not any of their neighbors.

By the time they make it to their floor, Clarke can’t hold in it and starts giggling. Bellamy peers back at her, surprised as she covers her face is mortification. “Right,” he says, “I almost forgot you’re a dork.”

Clarke gets her giggling under control and punches his shoulder. “Shut up. That was so embarrassing.”

He scoffs. “Hardly. Come on.”

She follows him back into their apartment, shuddering under the blast of air conditioning on her wet skin. Clarke heads straight to the closet for towels so they can dry off. Only Bellamy sneaks up behind her, slipping his arms around her waist. He kisses the back of her neck and Clarke tremors down to her toes.

She leans into him, feeling him hard against her ass. “That’s better. Screw the towels. I’m just going to rip this little thing off of you.”

Her stomach dips. _Yes_. That is better.

Clarke turns around, pushing up on her toes to attack his mouth. She captures his bottom lip between her teeth and tugs. Bellamy growls again. “My room,” he says.

Clarke nods. Reluctantly, she tears away from him so they can get upstairs. Sneaking around in their apartment under their roommates’ noses should inspire guilt. Instead, it just makes everything hotter, even more tempting to have a taste of what is forbidden.

They slip into Bellamy’s room, the door locking behind them. Bellamy reaches for her, drawing Clarke into fierce, demanding kisses. She melts against him. His hands on her hips, her ass, are greedy, taking what he wants. She gets wetter for him, turned-on by his forcefulness. Clarke’s shower fantasies pale in comparison to the reality of Bellamy and his hard body against hers.

His hands grab the back of her thighs and she gets the hint. Clarke leaps up, letting him catch her, and she loses her bikini with impressive speed before Bellamy drops her on the unmade bed. Bellamy steps out of his trunks and she has a moment to run her eyes over him, hungry for every inch of exposed skin.

His muscled torso and arms are impressive as always, but now Clarke only has eyes for his cock. He’s as big as she thought. Thick and long, standing straight up from its nest of dark curls. She can’t wait to taste him, to fill her mouth with him.

Bellamy retrieves a condom from the bedside drawer, granting Clarke a chance to admire his toned ass and thighs as well. The man is so gorgeous she nearly hates him for it. If she wasn’t about to fuck him, that is.

Bellamy climbs onto the bed, tossing the condom package down onto the blue sheets. He pushes Clarke onto her back by her shoulders and she lets him, anticipation a smoldering flame in her belly. If Bellamy can’t already tell Clarke likes being manhandled, he’s soon going to find out.

He takes her wrists next, pinning them down to the bed. His dark stare is an order to stay there. Clarke smiles. “Is this how you want me?”

“Yes,” Bellamy mutters. “Don’t move.”

The rough command of his voice sends a flesh flood of wetness between her legs. His hands move to her knees, parting her thighs open for him. Bellamy looks his fill at her exposed pussy. He runs his finger across her glistening slit.  

“You’re dripping. Is this all for me, Clarke?”

“Uh huh,” she murmurs. She’s dying for him to touch her; it makes it difficult to stay still. “I want you, so fucking bad.”

Bellamy’s eyes flick to hers, his curious against her desperation. He caresses her inner thighs. “How long? How long did you want this?”

Part of Clarke _really_ doesn’t want to tell him. He’s cocky enough without the ammunition. But she wants him to fuck her with his fingers, eat her out, more than anything else. “The day I moved in,” she admits. “I wanted you.”

Bellamy smirks like she’s confirming something he already knew. “You thought about me didn’t you, dirty girl? You got yourself off thinking about _this_?”

“Bellamy,” she hisses. “Enough talking! _Touch me_.”

“Fair enough,” he chuckles. “Don’t worry. I thought about you too, Clarke. All about getting my mouth on this sweet pussy of yours.”

She’s really considering killing him, but finally, he lowers his mouth to her cunt. A loud moan spills out of her at the first touch of his tongue licking a wide stripe up her slit. He parts her wet folds with his fingers and nudges her clit out of its hood, lapping at the hardened nub.

Clarke’s thighs shake, her moans becoming a constant stream. Bellamy’s hands clamp over them, holding her legs down. She’s going to lie there and _take_ whatever he gives her and that burns her arousal hotter.

Bellamy draws her clit between his lips and sucks harshly, making her cry out. He pulls off abruptly, his mouth and chin glistening from her slickness. “Quiet, Princess. You don’t want Raven or Murphy to hear, right?”

She nods. “I’ll be quiet, I’ll be good. Don’t stop!”

Bellamy nods behind her. “Take the pillow. There. Keep quiet.”

She needs the pillow to muffle herself when Bellamy buries his face in her cunt again. He pops her clit in and out of his mouth, fast and slick, the sounds filthy as pleasure shoots through her. It’s heaven. So fucking good she shakes from it.

He releases one trembling thigh to spread her lips open and push two fingers inside, gliding in easy thanks to her slickness. He goes in deeper than her own can, finding that sweet spot inside her and fucking into it. Her hips buck up from the burst of intense pressure and Bellamy has to band his arm across her, holding her down.

“That’s it,” he says, low and hot. “I know it feels good, Clarke, I know.”

Clarke silences her cries as he jabs at her sweet spot, wringing the pleasure out of her. She can’t keep still, squirming on the bed. His tongue works in an unpredictable pattern, alternating between lashing on her clit and licking softly. Her orgasm hurtles towards her at blinding speed.

“Fuck, Bell,” she moans, “I’m gonna come!”

“Yeah you are,” Bellamy urges her, the words vibrating on her clit. “You’re going to come on my tongue, Princess. I wanna feel you.”

Her cunt starts to flutter around his curling fingers. Bellamy buries his mouth against her, sucking and rocking his head from side to side in quick motions. It’s too much. It feels like she’s going to burst and then she does.

Clarke presses the pillow against her face, knowing her climax is going to hit hard. Her back arches as the pleasure crests within her and sends her shuddering into orgasm. White-hot and pulsing for what feels like an eternity. Clarke’s cries are loud even when muffled.

Bellamy pulls his fingers out, nudging her clit with his tongue until she is spent and over-sensitive. Her thighs collapse together when he sits back on his heels, wiping at his mouth. Clarke sets the pillow aside so she can catch her breath and let her racing pulse slow.

She breaks into giggles. The aftermath of a good orgasm makes her giddy. Clarke feels warm and sated, at least for now. Her desire takes a couple of minutes to kick back up.

She combs her damp hair away from her flushed face and Bellamy smirks down at her. “That was so fucking sexy.”

Clarke is a bit speechless, not that he needs the ego boost. That orgasm was wild. She reaches for the condom and tears it open, gesturing for Bellamy to come closer so she can roll in onto him. He feels hot and smooth in her palm as she strokes his length hurriedly. 

Bellamy lets out a groan, watching her jerk his cock with dark heat in his eyes. He licks his lips, slipping his hand between her legs to touch her still-tingling pussy. “You sure you can take me?”

He gets a twist on his nipple for that, making Bellamy laugh in amusement. He bats her wrist away and leans down on his elbows to kiss her, wet and deep. She can taste herself on him. His tongue flicks in her mouth as a mimic of how he licked her clit.

Clarke breaks away, pushing at his shoulders. “Come on. I want you to fuck me.”

Bellamy tsks. “Bossy.”

She isn’t expecting it when he sits up, pulling her with him and rolls her onto her hands and knees. Bellamy settles behind her, his hard cock brushing the curve of her ass. Clarke gasps when he reaches for her cunt, rubbing her still dripping slickness around and pinches her swollen clit.

“Fuck, Bellamy!” Clarkes cries out, a sting coming with the pleasure. He slaps her ass next and she moans as her pussy flutters on his fingers.

“That’s right,” he murmurs, nipping at her ear. “I’m gonna fuck you. Good and hard. I’m gonna turn you out, Clarke. Is that what you want?”

“Yes,” she murmurs. “I want it, Bell. I want it.”

“Yeah, you’re desperate for it, aren’t you?” He taunts her, slipping his cock between her thighs to rub at her cunt lips, listening to her gasp. He coats himself in her wetness. “Greedy for my cock.”

Clarke pushes her ass back against him, showing him how much she needs him inside her. Right now. Her cunt aches to be filled by him. He lands a slap on her other cheek and she goes still for him, a moan spilling out of her.

Bellamy squeezes her hips tight, chuckling to himself. “Princess likes it rough, huh?”

“Bellamy—”

Her whine is choked off when he finally lines himself up and thrusts inside her. She feels his thick length parting her lips, stretching her walls to take him in. Clarke’s mouth falls open, her nails pinching the sheets under her. She’s full of him.

“Fuck,” she says quietly when he bottoms out. “You’re big.”

“You can take me,” Bellamy answers and this time it’s not a question but a _promise_. One that makes her stomach twist in anticipation. He massages her hips now, giving her a minute to adjust.

Clarke reaches back to squeeze his thigh, the go-ahead that he’s good to move. Bellamy pulls back and snaps his hips forward, pumping hard and fast inside her. Clarke moans at the drag of his cock, loving being fucked like this, the tight grip on her waist and rough rhythm that makes her brace herself on her arms.

He feels so good inside her. Then Bellamy shifts, finding the perfect angle and her moans become high and ragged. He’s hitting all the right spots at a brutal pace, the pleasure sweet and hot coursing from deep inside her. Clarke claws at the sheets as she takes it.

Then Bellamy grasps the back of her hair, stinging sweetly as he tugs her head up. “How does that feel? Is that good, Clarke?”

She whines as she nods. “God, Bellamy, there, there! You got it.”

He rocks into her harder, his hips knocking into her ass. The sounds of skin on skin and her wet cunt being fucked are obscene and filthy hot. Clarke doesn’t care about coming again, not right then. The sex is too good to want it to end.

Bellamy’s arm snakes around her waist. He lifts her up so her back presses to his chest as he fucks her, holding her tightly against him. “You feel fucking incredible,” Bellamy growls into her ear, his breaths heavy and warm. “So tight, so wet for me.”

His hand cups her tit, his thumb running across her nipple. He pinches the taut peak between his fingers, just how she likes it. Clarke is treated to the harsh drag of his cock inside her, coupled with her nipple being tweaked nice and hard.

Clarke’s head rolls back against his shoulder. Her eyes squeeze shut, lost to the rhythmic pleasure in her body. Until Bellamy says, “God, look at you. Open your eyes, Princess. See how fucking hot you are.”

Clarke opens her eyes, finding her reflection in the vanity’s mirror across from them. She sees her and Bellamy wrapped around each other, their naked bodies glistening with sweat. Her hand clutches at his hair, her lips parted and blue eyes hazy as he fucks her. A shock jolts through Clarke when she meets his eye in the reflection.

He’s right. They look good. She doesn’t feel self-conscious, not with Bellamy’s husky voice murmuring into her ear about her body, her gorgeous tits, her sweet cunt.

“Touch yourself,” Bellamy orders. “I wanna feel you come again on my cock.”

Clarke does as he says, her fingers finding her clit, warm and tingly. She’s soaked, dripping down her inner thighs. She gathers up the wetness to rub at herself in harsh circles, holding Bellamy’s gaze in the mirror. It might be the hottest thing that she has ever experienced.

“Oh god,” she gasps, her cunt contracting around him. “fuck, Bellamy, please!”

Bellamy groans as he feels it. He kisses her neck, licking at her sweat-slicked skin. “Yeah, that’s it. Good girl. You’re gonna come for me. Come on.”

Clarke can’t keep her eyes open as the pleasure becomes too much. Her fingers working her clit while Bellamy hits her sweet spot with his cock builds her orgasm in a tidal wave. Gasps and moans escape her and it’s only Bellamy’s hand clamping over her mouth that contains her scream.

Her climax crashes into her, pummeling Clarke with waves of pleasure. Her knees buckle from the force of it, but Bellamy holds her up.

“Christ,” he swears as she clenches rhythmically around his cock. “Oh, fuck, that’s good.”

His thrusts falter as he follows after her into orgasm. Bellamy silences himself by biting into her shoulder. It’s sure to leave behind a mark, but she doesn’t mind. His body shudders against hers before going still, the tension melting out of him.

He removes his hand from her mouth, letting Clarke pant for breath. Her heart is hammering in her chest. Bellamy lies back on the bed, bringing her with him to collapse against his side. She drops her head on his shoulder, completely spent.

Bellamy traces absent patterns on her hip as they lie there quietly. Clarke knows she has to get up, drag herself back to her room. She just has to find the strength. Her legs feel like they’re filled with jelly.

Bellamy turns his head to look at her, his curls in disarray, red bitten lips forming a smirk. “We’re doing _that_ again.”

Clarke manages a tired, pleased smile. “Hell yeah, we are.”

He lifts his palm and she slaps her hand against it before succumbing to giggles.

 

* * *

 

She and Bellamy last less than twenty-four hours before they have sex again.

That Wednesday evening Clarke walks through the door to their apartment, returning from work and immediately kicks off her heels. There’s a giant knot in the back of her neck that no amount of rubbing can get out. Her stress leads her straight to the kitchen.

Clarke digs out some chips and a tube of guacamole leftover from game night. She sits down in front of the TV, but even the stress-eating and the empty apartment isn’t helping. Her mind is circling around the work she has waiting for her on her desk.

As she’s scrolling through her Netflix queue, Raven flies through the door. She brings a hurricane of her own stress. Wick has arranged for them to meet his parents for dinner. Raven has been putting it off for weeks, throwing every excuse at him, but Wick is too good at calling her out on her bullshit.

“It’s D-Day,” Raven announces grimly, dragging herself downstairs freshly showered from her shift at the mechanic shop. “I _hate_ meeting parents.”

Clarke stifles her amusement to grimace sympathetically. “Why are you then? Just tell him no, it’s too soon.”

It’s not like Raven has a problem speaking her mind. But she just sighs. “I have no idea why I’m doing this,” Raven mutters. “I just know if I give Wick another excuse, he’ll dump me.”

Clarke doesn’t bother pointing out that this might be a good thing. It isn’t her business. She knows Raven well enough by now to know her roommate wants to be the one doing the dumping. She doesn’t want to give Wick the upper-hand to end things between them.

“When I’m done with him, he’ll know,” Raven always tells her when Clarke asks. “Wick hasn’t outrun his usefulness yet.”

Clarke doesn’t pretend to understand their fling/business relationship or whatever it is. “Good luck,” she calls out as Raven rushes out the door.

As soon as she’s gone, Clarke pulls out her phone to text Bellamy. They have the place to themselves tonight since Murphy is working at the restaurant.

_What r u doing rn?_

His reply comes in ten minutes later. _Gym._

Clarke is by no means a pro at sexting, but she can get her point across. She slips into the bathroom to snap a naked photo of herself and sends it to Bellamy. _I have a better idea for burning calories ;-)_

This time he responds in seconds. _Coming home._

Clarke smirks down at her phone. She cleans up the mess she made in the living room and changes out of her work clothes into her favorite David Bowie T-shirt and yoga pants. There’s no point dressing up if Bellamy is just going to rip her clothes off anyway.

She watches the TV without really seeing what’s playing. Her nerves are bouncing around her body. She’s impatient for Bellamy to get here and get inside her. The night before was honestly the best sex she’s had in a long time, if ever. Bellamy may be a cocky jackass, but he can back up his talk.

She hears the lock turning in the door and at last Bellamy comes through. He’s glistening with sweat, his curls wild, and already smirking when he catches sight of her. “Miss me already, Princess?”

Clarke doesn’t bother responding or disguising her impatience. He’s good in bed and he knows it. She waits long enough for him to lock the door, slip out of his shoes, and set down his gym bag before she pounces.

Yanking him down into a messy kiss, she bites the cocky smirk off his lips. Her hands fist through his sweat-damp hair. The scent of his skin post-workout makes arousal flood between her legs. Clarke _needs_ to get her mouth on him, feel his taste bloom on her tongue.

Bellamy kisses her back just as aggressively. His hands clutch her hips before sliding down the back of her yoga pants to squeeze and knead her ass. She breaks away to get his muscle shirt off, licking her lips at the miles of toned, golden-brown skin and kisses her way down his chest to his navel.

Bellamy’s shoulders shake with his amusement. He presses his palm flat to the front of her wet panties. “You’re desperate for it, aren’t you? You need my cock that bad, sweetheart?”

“Shut up,” she snaps. “You’re hot and I’m horny.”  

Bellamy laughs, the sexy laugh when he throws back his head and his throat bobs with it. Clarke sucks a bruise at the base of his neck. She licks greedily at the sweat coating his skin. Bellamy’s hard cock presses against her stomach and she remembers what she’s _really_ hungry for.

Clarke straightens up, throwing off her T-shirt. She feels a sense of satisfaction when Bellamy’s eyes drop to her exposed tits. Want darkens his stare, his pupils dilating. Heavy breaths heave his chest. His smug comments dry up then.

She feels the same. Her pulse is thrumming, her body flushed and focused with single-minded desire to have him. Clarke has never felt such powerful attraction, this raw, primal need to have someone, and it’s exhilarating.  

Bellamy lets her maneuver him onto the couch. He lifts his hips so Clarke can strip him out of his sweatpants and his full length springs free. Her mouth waters, eager to taste him the way she didn’t get to during their fucking before.

Clarke sinks to her knees in front of him, but Bellamy captures her wrists before she can continue. His dark gaze liquefies her. “Let’s not forget who’s in charge here.”

Normally, that dominance would piss Clarke off. But as turned-on as she is and under these circumstances, it’s different. The roughness of his voice gets her hot. Suddenly, Clarke is his to command and she’s eager to please him.

“Pleases,” she murmurs. “I really want to suck your cock. Can I do that, Bell?”

She’s melting inside from the heat in his eyes. Flames of desire flicker under her skin. Bellamy brushes her hair away from her face, almost gentle, except for the way his fingers tighten after. He’s gripping her hair hard enough to sting.

Clarke holds his gaze, not bothering to hide her desperation. He knows what she wants. A smirk spreads over Bellamy’s lips. “Go ahead then. Help yourself to my cock. I bet your pretty lips would look so good wrapped around me.”

She hums in agreement. Bellamy slouches in his seat, spreading his knees apart for her and releases her wrists. Clarke runs her hands up his thighs, thrilled at the way Bellamy shivers, just a bit. She’s eager for all of his reactions.

Her hand winds around the base of his cock. It feels even better without a condom on, hot to the touch. Clarke jerks her wrist up, stroking him a few times. She twists at the head just to watch his thighs spasm. As expected, Bellamy tugs at her hair in retaliation.

She likes the sting of it, even without him inside her. And the threat veiled behind Bellamy’s eyes if she teases him too long. He’ll tease her too and make her regret it. Just the thought makes Clarke shiver in anticipation.

Judging by the half-smile on Bellamy’s face, he gets like she likes these things. This game. It amazes her. They’ve only had sex once and he already understands her better in bed than Finn ever did.

Clarke leans over Bellamy’s lap to finally get her mouth on him. Her lips close around the sensitive head, moaning at the taste of him exploding on her tongue. Bellamy swears at the vibration it causes on his cock. Anticipation crackles in her belly to hear him groan and call out her name in pleasure.

She licks at the tip of him, flattening her tongue on his slit and around the head. Bellamy cups her jaw, breathing heavy through his nose as she sucks. Sloppy and wet. She laps his tongue along the underside of the shaft, messily kissing his way back up to the swollen head.

“Fuck yeah,” Bellamy says lowly. “Come on, I know you can take more of me.”

Oh, she can. Clarke widens her jaw, letting the hard length of him slide into her mouth. She takes him in deep until the tip grazes the back of her throat, until the dark tangle of pubic hair tickles her nose. Her eyes flick upward, holding Bellamy’s hooded stare as she swallows around her mouthful.

A groan escapes him. “ _Fuck_ ,” Bellamy hisses. “You’re a pretty girl with a dirty mouth, aren’t you, Princess? Goddamn.”

Clarke winks at him before her eyes start to sting. Her jaw aches from being full of him, but she loves it. There’s something so hot about being on her knees for him, her neck bowed, while Bellamy’s hands pull through her hair.

He caresses her scalp as Clarke pulls back. She lets his cock rest on the edge of her tongue, sucking hard while her hand jerks over the rest of him, using her saliva and his precome as lube. Taking him in halfway, she slips his cock in and out of her mouth, switching between hard sucks and soft passes of her tongue.  

Bellamy throws his head back against the couch, his hips jerking forward. He nearly chokes her and Clarke has to pause, her eyes watering. His eyes are half-closed, lips parted open in pleasure. He looks so fucking sexy. Clarke suddenly wishes she could sketch him right now, just like this.

“Sorry,” he mutters, voice deliciously hoarse. “Your mouth is too fucking good.”

Clarke shakes her head. She doesn’t mind. When his hips twitch forward again, driving his dick deeper into her mouth, she moans around him. Her hand reaches up to squeeze his knee, encouraging him.

Bellamy lifts his head, a disbelieving smile on his face. “Oh yeah? You gonna let me fuck your mouth, Clarke?” 

A spark of excitement is in Bellamy’s eyes and his enthusiasm is contagious. She wants this _more_  if that’s possible. Fresh wetness slicks her cunt. She’s already wet for him since he walked through the door, but her arousal burns through her now.

Clarke smirks around him before deliberately relaxing her throat. He uses his grip on her hair to guide her forward and she lets him, setting her hands in her lap. Bellamy gives an experimental roll of his hips, moving in her mouth. On his next slow thrust, Clarke sucks on him to let him know it’s okay, she’s okay.

His cock bumps into the back of her throat and Clarke works to keep herself still, breathing deeply through her nose. Actually feeling Bellamy fuck her mouth is too much. She can’t resist cupping herself, digging her fingers into her clit with every slide of his hard, heavy cock on her tongue.

“God, that’s good,” Bellamy groans. His hand squeezes the back of her neck. “Look at me.” He waits for her eyes to meet his, pupils blown with his desire. “You’re so fucking sexy, Clarke.”

She swallows around him again and his thrusting rhythm breaks, letting her know he’s close. His breathing quickens and Bellamy grunts out a warning, but Clarke doesn’t move, just sucks hard around him. She feels his cock twitch on her tongue and then the taste of his come, bitter and salty, before it disappears down her throat.

Bellamy pulls back and reaches down to wipe away the tear that leaked out of her eye. His smile is wide, lazy. “Come here.”

He lifts her up to straddle his lap, brushing her hair back out of her face. They kiss for a minute, dirty and slow, Bellamy’s taste passing between them.  He slips his knee between her legs and presses against her damp cunt.

Clarke moans at the firm pressure finally against her. She’s so hot from sucking him off, it wouldn’t take much. “Is this how you wanna come, Princess?” Bellamy whispers against her lips.

She doesn’t get the chance to answer. They both hear the jingle of keys outside the door. Clarke jumps off his lap, reaching for her discarded shirt while Bellamy scrambles to get his clothes back on. They move at lightning speed. By the time the door opens, Clarke has ducked into the kitchen and is pretending to ponder dinner and Bellamy is flopped on the couch.

Raven storms inside and yells on her way to the stairs, “Yes, the dinner was a disaster. No, I don’t want to talk about it.”

A few moments later, her bedroom door slams shut. Clarke walks out of the kitchen and catches Bellamy’s eye, mirroring his relief. That was close. With Raven’s bad mood, she might have kicked _both_ of them out if they got caught.

They order take-out and eat with a safe distance between them on the couch. Bellamy swears that he’ll make it up to her before they go their separate ways: her to her room and Bellamy to the shower.

Clarke isn’t expecting it when Bellamy sneaks into her room at midnight. He makes her come twice on his fingers and with his mouth and she has to muffle herself with her own pillow, her hips rocking desperately toward his face.

After, Bellamy goes back to his room. They haven’t talked about it, whatever it is they’re doing, but Clarke thinks a habit is already formed. Their sex is too good to stop now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed that ;-) The story is officially _explicit_ from now on. 
> 
> Follow me on [tumblr](http://www.kombellarke.tumblr.com) !


	6. No Strings Attached

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Hey. I know you’re in a rush, but I want to make sure we’re on the same page.”
> 
> “Same page?” Clarke repeats. 
> 
> Bellamy’s brows are furrowed in his reflection, oddly serious. “Yeah. This is just sex. That’s all. I’m not looking for a relationship.”
> 
> “Me either,” she agrees easily. Clarke turns around to nudge him, laughing at his expression. “I get it. Just sex, no strings, no feelings.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Friday fam! I'm still riding on a high from Bellarke this week and couldn't wait to post this chapter. Things are heating up ;-)
> 
> Thank you guys for reading this story. I have so much love for you all <3 
> 
> **Note:** There are some references to drug addiction in this chapter. Feel free to skip the Abby scenes if that makes you uncomfortable. Stay safe, loves. 
> 
> Enjoy!

 

* * *

 

Her toes curl against the tile floor of the shower. She’s so close to coming, sitting right on the edge. Long, thick fingers crook inside her, hitting that perfect spot with every swipe. It feels so good, she almost wants to cry from it.

“There,” Clarke chants, hips grinding on Bellamy’s working fingers. “Oh, god. Right _there_ , Bell—“ Her words are run off by a broken moan.

Clarke’s hands clutch at his wet curls. Bellamy’s head is bowed, sucking and teasing her taut nipple between his lips. She is liquid from pleasure, her body in full control over her mind. There is only raw need inside her, desperate to reach the orgasm at her fingertips.

Bellamy pulls off her breast to gaze up at her from under his lashes. Water runs down his face and across his sharp, filthy grin. He’s watching her squirm as he fucks her with his fingers, pupils blown wide, his eyes boring into hers. His thumb circles tight over her swollen clit.

“You’re close aren’t you?” His voice echoes off the shower walls, goading her. “I can _feel_ how tight your cunt is. You’re gonna come for me, Princess?”

She nods frantically, clenching around his fingers inside her, involuntarily stilling their movement. Bellamy gets his mouth back on her tits, his tongue lashing over the tight peaks. He bites down lightly, a hint of his teeth just how she likes.

Clarke gasps for him, reduced to nothing but keen whimpers and weak pleas. “Fuck, Bellamy, fuck. _Please_.”

He rubs harder on her clit and hums to himself as her orgasm slams into her, stealing the air from her lungs. “That’s it,” he says lowly. “Yeah, that’s so hot, Clarke.”

Her cunt pulses through the swells of her climax. She’s breathless, mouth dropped open in pleasure, one leg shaking from its place around Bellamy’s hip. Her orgasm retreats slowly and Clarke comes back to herself, shuddering and moaning softly.

Bellamy’s fingers have slipped out of her, now resting on the wall behind her. He smirks, proud, when her eyes open. “Good?”

Clarke doesn’t bother answering just to stroke his inflated ego. She cups his cheeks and tugs him down into a lazy kiss, too boneless at the moment to do more than press her lips against his. Bellamy steers her backward, taking over, his kisses hot and ravenous with his still-burning arousal.

She feels Bellamy’s hard dick flushed between them. She’s still twitching with aftershocks, but her own desire sparks, feeling how much he wants her. Clarke slips her hand between their slick bodies to wrap around his length.

Bellamy groans into her mouth. “Mmm yeah, Clarke,” he says as she works her hand up and down in long, wet strokes. “That feels good.”

A loud blaring pierces the air. Clarke startles before she remembers she set an alarm on her phone. That’s her warning to move her ass before she’s late for work.

“Shit,” Clarke mutters, biting her lip. “I gotta—”

Bellamy nods. He steps away from her, his hand replacing hers on his cock. She shivers at the loss of his body’s warmth, all the hot water spraying his back. “It’s fine.” A smirk touches his lips. “I’ll collect my IOU later.”

Her stomach dips at the promise of _later_. Of more. They’ve been sleeping together a week now, but Clarke hasn’t fully wrapped her head around it yet.

“Deal,” she says. Clarke pulls back the shower curtain and Bellamy smacks her ass on her way out.

Goosebumps break out across her skin. Clarke tucks a towel around her dripping body and shuts off the alarm on her phone. She has to hustle. It’s hard, leaving a naked Bellamy behind in the shower, but it has to be done.

In her bedroom, Clarke dries off and dresses as fast as she can. She winds her half-damp hair up into a bun. The bathroom is cleared out by the time Clarke goes back in to spritz on her perfume and throw on some quick touches of make-up.

She’s applying her nude lipstick when someone knocks on the door. “Come in,” she calls, smacking her lips together.

The door opens and Bellamy appears, dressed as well, his hair drying against his neck. He leans in the doorway, arms crossed. “Hey. I know you’re in a rush, but I want to make sure we’re on the same page.”

“Same page?” Clarke repeats, half-listening as she resets the tube on her mascara.

Bellamy’s brows are furrowed in his reflection, oddly serious. “Yeah. This is just sex. That’s all. I’m not looking for a relationship.”

“Me either,” she agrees easily. Clarke turns around to nudge him, laughing at his expression. “I get it. Just sex, no strings, no feelings.”

Bellamy looks at her and when he sees she’s really fine with it, he lightens up. “Cool. I’ll see you later.”

“ _Later_.” Clarke adds a suggestive tilt to her voice and winks as she squeezes past him. Bellamy shakes his head after her, amused.

 

* * *

 

Miller brings over a pitcher of margaritas from the bar and the tables cheers. Clarke accepts a glass, her feet propped in Jasper’s lap, and Harper warm against her side. The mood is light and relaxed as Harper weaves them a story about her work’s rally for clean energy, her arms gesturing wildly. She’s already tipsy, cheeks flushed pink, and Monty watches her talk with raging heart-eyes.

Their group has swapped out game night for going to the Dead Zone and watching the karaoke performances taking place. Jasper has already brought the house down with his rendition of “Add It Up” by the Violent Femmes, which their friends went apeshit over.

“Raven says she’s on her way,” Clarke announces, reading the text she just received.

She looks up and accidentally catches Bellamy’s gaze. A tiny thrill shoots down her spine whenever their eyes lock across the booth. Bellamy smirks back, private, just for her. Their secret vibrates the air between them and no one catches on.

Their group is entertained by a drunk patron singing Mariah Carey, sourly missing her high notes but he’s singing his heart out anyway. Clarke pours herself another drink, overheated in their cramped booth, but buzzed and happy surrounded by her found family.

Raven storms through the bar’s doors, her ponytail whipping behind her as she stomps over to them. Her face is a rolling storm of irritation.

“Uh oh,” Harper says, eyes wide. “What’s wrong, babe?”

Wordlessly, Raven takes the filled glass that Bellamy hands her and gulps it down. She slams it down when it’s drained. “Wick and I are done,” she announces.

“Yikes,” Jasper replies. “You’re gonna need something stronger than this.”

He squeezes out of the booth to head up to the bar, slightly wobbly. Bellamy watches his progress, frowning to himself, looking ready to jump up if Jasper topples over. Clarkes smiles into her glass. He’s such a mother hen sometimes.

Harper leans forward to catch Raven’s eye. “Are you okay?”

“Don’t want to talk about it,” she growls. “I just want to drink.”

Jasper carries over a round of Fireball shots. It doesn’t take Raven long to catch up to the rest of them, her eyes turning glassy under the effects of alcohol. They laugh and joke as they watch the karaoke performances, but Raven’s mood remains black and thundering.

Clarke hears under the group’s chatter when Murphy leans in to talk, stretching over Bellamy. “You might want to slow down, Reyes.”

Raven scoffs, careless to the whiskey spilling out of her shot glass and onto her hand. “What are you, my mother? Fuck off, Murphy.”

He rolls his eyes. “Fine. Have fun puking your guts out later.”

Murphy talks and laughs with Bellamy, pretending like he isn’t concerned with anything. But Clarke has her eye on their roommate too. She doesn’t miss the way Murphy silently checks-in on her or the way he casually switches places with Bellamy at the table to be next to Raven.

He steals the last Fireball shot from the tray and sucks it down before Raven can, ignoring her loud protests. Clarke is kind of impressed. He plays the whole thing off as being selfish, but she knows better.

“Hey! That was mine, dick!” Raven jostles his shoulder. Her words are slurred.

Murphy inclines his head at her, wearing a careless smirk. “I’ll make it up to you.”    

“Yeah?” She demands. “How?”

He taps his fingers on the tabletop, his blue eyes thinking, calculating. “What’s that stupid Bruno Mars song you like?”

“Uptown Funk!” Harper bursts, past drunk.

Murphy looks at Raven, waiting for her to agree. She squints at him in confusion. “Everyone likes that song. What’s your point?”

They all watch curiously and partly in bafflement as Murphy pushes out of the booth, striding up to the karaoke station.

“Oh my god,” Monty exclaims, sharing all of their amazement. “Is Murphy gonna sing Bruno Mars? Is that what’s happening right now?”

Bellamy whips out his phone and aims it at the karaoke stage, ready to record. “Best game night ever,” he says gleefully.

Murphy finds the right song on the machine. Then he takes his place on the small stage, raising the microphone to his lips. A hush falls over half of the bar as the upbeat, energetic notes of “Uptown Funk” stream out of the speakers. Murphy bops his head along and starts to rap.

“This hit, that ice cold. Michelle Pfeiffer, that white gold. This one for them hood girls. Them good girls, straight masterpieces.”

Their table loses it. They are all cracking up, hollering and singing along, but Raven is laughing the hardest, tears soaking her eyes. Which, Clarke thinks, is the point.

Raven is grinning when Murphy makes it back to their booth, a swagger in his steps. She’s ready to mock him endlessly for the rest of the night and Murphy takes it all in stride. He’s fine with it because Raven isn’t miserable anymore.

After karaoke ends, their group splits up. Miller goes with Bryan back to his place. Jasper suggests bar hopping, claiming it’s only midnight and the night is still young. He ropes Bellamy into going with them, though Clarke suspects he’s just trying to keep an eye on the others.

Raven’s head is lolling on her shoulder by then, so Clarke calls it a night and takes her home. Her roommate is going to be feeling the pain tomorrow. Raven barely makes it to the second floor of their apartment before nausea hits her and she stumbles to the bathroom.

Clarke holds back her hair as she heaves her guts out as Murphy predicted. Raven curses Wick and Fireball shots as she gets sick, Clarke making soothing noises and urging her to get it all out. When she’s done, Clarke tucks her roommate into bed and heads to the shower to wash the night off of her.

The boys are back when she climbs out. She hears them saying goodnight and parting in the hallway. Clarke waits about ten minutes before she slips into Bellamy’s room. She’s horny and yearning for him, thanks to the flush of alcohol and the sneaking around gets her hot too.

Bellamy is drifting off in his bed, but Clarke wakes him up with her mouth on his cock. She makes herself come while she blows him, her fingers rolling over her clit, her cunt drenched between her thighs. Bellamy pulls her off before he can finish, fingers yanking at her hair with that sweet ache in her scalp. “You smell amazing,” he murmurs before he pushes his tongue into her mouth. 

Her protests are silenced. She was happy to suck him off, loves tasting his cock, but she’s treated to Bellamy fucking her into another hot orgasm instead. He has one of her legs propped on his broad shoulder, her nails clawing at the pillow under her head, and his hand clamped to her mouth to quiet her as Clarke cries out when she comes hard.

“You’re so fucking loud,” Bellamy laughs after, brushing the hair off her sweaty forehead.

Clarke smiles, both shameless and well-fucked. “You love it.”

“Yeah,” he admits. “Maybe I do.” 

 

* * *

 

Roan glares at her, his lunch forgotten on his desk as he regards her suspiciously. “Is Ontari getting fired? Does Finn have syphilis or something?”

Clarke chokes on her water. His absurd questions send her into a coughing fit. When she recovers, she shoots her boss/friend an incredulous look. “ _No_. What the hell are you talking about?”

He points at her with his chopsticks. “You’re glowing, Griffin.”

A hot flush crawls up her cheeks. That _glow_ is the result of getting laid regularly by her gorgeous roommate. Clarke sips at her water, trying to remain nonchalant. “Can’t I just be in a good mood today?" 

“You work here,” Roan points out flatly. It’s a fair point. His eyes drop to her stomach and he grimaces. “You’re not pregnant, are you?”

“God, Roan,” she huffs. “No, I’m not pregnant. But your enthusiasm is heart-warming. Thanks so much.”

He shrugs, entirely unbothered that she might have taken offense to his hypothetical reaction. “I need to know if you’re going to be out on maternity leave.” He explains with his typical bluntness. “Which would suck. You can’t leave me to these morons, Griffin. I’d blow my brain out without you.”

Clarke softens slightly. “Aww, Roan. You really _do_ care.”

She laughs as he rolls his eyes. Teasing her boss is about eighty-percent of why she tolerates working at Azgeda. Roan is so easy to annoy. 

They resume their eating their meals, but her hopes that Roan would be distracted enough to let it go are shot. He’s like a bloodhound. Her boss has a nose for sniffing out deceit and bullshit amongst his employees, which is why Ontari’s ass-kissing has never worked on him.

“So what is it?” Roan asks gruffly. “Are you getting laid?”

“Actually—” Clarke starts, but she’s saved by her cell phone ringing.

She slips it out of her purse and glances at the screen. Arkadia Memorial is calling her. Clarke frowns. Her mother never calls during work hours. As a surgeon, Abby’s schedule can be unusual, but she’s more likely to call in the evenings.

Clarke sets down her utensils and answers the call. “Hello, Mom?”

“Hi, Clarke. This is Dr. Jackson,” a familiar, male voice answers.

Her pulse skips. Something is wrong. Clarke can feel it, the dread sinking like a heavy stone in her stomach. “Hi, Dr. Jackson. Is everything okay?”

He sighs. “No, actually. I’m really sorry to be bothering you, Clarke, but there’s been a problem with your mother.”

“A problem,” she repeats. Her heart bangs against her ribs. Clarke never wanted to get one of these phone calls again. The one about her dad was devastating enough. She can’t go through that again.

There’s a tense pause on the other end of the line. Clarke wishes he would just say it, whatever it is. “Your mother was inebriated during her surgery,” he says reluctantly. “The patient is fine, but…Clarke, I think you should come home.”

Her eyes squeeze shut. Clarke feels a downpour of emotions all at once. Relief and disappointment and sadness. She’s not dead. Her mother is alive, but it isn’t good news either. She knew something was wrong. Here it is.

“Thank you, Jackson,” Clarke says, sounding numb. “I’ll be there as soon as they can.”

The call disconnects. A haze falls over her, where time seems to stand still and move too quickly at the same time. She explains the situation to Roan without hearing herself say the words. He says something about her taking personal time and promising to deal with Nia. She thinks she thanks him.

Clarke blinks and time stutters forward. She feels déjà vu as she books a flight to Arkadia for that afternoon, using her emergency credit card to cover the last-minute fee and packs a bag for a few days stay. She leaves behind a note in the kitchen for her roommates and takes a car to the airport.

During the flight, she has too much time to think. It drags on slowly. As an only child, Clarke always knew she’d be responsible for taking care of her parents one day. That’s the circle of life. She just didn’t expect it to happen so soon. Not like this. Clarke could deal with old age, maybe sickness, but _this_ isn’t something she knows how to navigate.

As the plane touches down in Arkadia, Virginia, her phone buzzes with incoming texts. Clarke ignores them, not in the frame of mind to talk to anyone. Determination is settling in her bones. She needs to find her mother, see what she’s up against and make a game plan.

When Clarke arrives at Arkadia Memorial, she’s told that Dr. Griffin is in a board meeting. She takes a seat in the waiting room designed for families of patients. This part is familiar. Clarke spent a lot of her childhood waiting for Abby to get out of meetings, to finish a surgery, to come home.

In that time, she had her dad. And Wells. Now it’s just Clarke, waiting alone. She takes out her sketchbook and draws absently, her mind wandering for the two hours of the meeting.

Finally, Abby emerges from the board room. She’s told her daughter is looking for her and finds Clarke in the waiting room. Clarke can tell immediately that her mother isn’t _there_. Her eyes are lacking their usual sharpness. She stares at Clarke like she’s looking through her.

“Honey,” Abby greets her. “What are you doing here?”

Clarke blinks back tears. “Hi, Mom.”

She embraces her mother in a hug, feeling the frailness of her body. She’s too thin, her cheekbones too sharp. Clarke holds her until she is sure she isn’t going to burst into tears. Her jaw locks and she steps back, dry-eyed.

Her mom’s smile is brittle; like it’s been painted on. She doesn’t touch Clarke’s hair or her face like she used to. A drugged-out shell is wearing Abby’s face.

“I’m staying for a few days,” Clarke announces. “Can we have dinner?”

“Of course,” her mom says. “I get off at 7. I’ll meet you at the house.”

Her pager beeps and her mother is swept away, disappearing into the hospital’s sterile, white maze. Clarke tells herself to hold it together. Her old house isn’t too far. Clarke walks to the train station and rides back to her old neighborhood, the same train she took to school for years with Wells.

It’s even harder being back here than she prepared for. The memories crop up and haunt her after she’s been away so long. She took for granted the distance and peace that Polis offers. Now, it’s not just the ghost of her childhood best friend following her, but her dad as well.

Walking inside the Griffin house is surreal. The scent envelopes her in nostalgia. She forgot what _home_ smelled like.

The space looks different too. What was once a lived-in, but immaculate home is now a complete mess. Clarke cringes as she walks through it. There is a mountain of dirty dishes rotting in the sink. Take-out containers littered on the kitchen table. Clothes dropped on the floor in a trail leading up to the master bedroom. Paperwork and files from the hospital swamp the living room.

Her old bedroom is the only place untouched by chaos. Clarke unpacks her duffle bag and then go searching for gloves and trash bags. She has time to kill until her mom gets off work, so Clarke cleans up as much as she can.

At nightfall, she finally stops so she can prepare dinner for her and Abby. Clarke makes them a broccoli chicken casserole. Nothing special, but it’s one of her dad’s favorites and one of the few things she knows how to cook.

Her mom makes it through the dinner after 7, just as Clarke is setting their full plates down on the table. A ghost of a smile touches her lips. “You cooked?”

Her mother doesn’t seem to notice the house’s make-over. Clarke shrugs. “It’s not hard. Dad taught me.”

Abby’s eyes dim at the mention of Jake. “Let me wash up. Then we’ll eat.”

They sit down for dinner. The silence of the house feels deafening without her dad’s lively presence. Clarke doesn’t know how her mom can stand it. Guilt nips at her for leaving her mom alone in this empty house. Obviously, she isn’t handling it well, not taking care of herself at all.

Abby makes small, polite talk about Clarke’s life in Polis. They converse as out-of-touch strangers rather than mother and daughter. Clarke tells her about Azgeda and her roommates, the friends she’s made. Her mom listens without actually _hearing_ her. Clarke can see how the words don’t stick.

“That’s great, honey,” Abby says dully. She’s repeating the script of what she’s supposed to say. “How long are you staying?”

Clarke looks up sharply. Her patience runs out. “That depends. Are we going to talk about your drug problem now?”

Her reaction isn’t much, merely a ripple over the surface. Abby pauses eating to gape at her. “Don’t be ridiculous. I don’t have a _drug problem_ , Clarke.”

She sucks in a breath, frustration bubbling under her skin. Clarke sets down her fork, clenching her fists in her lap. “Mom, you were numb during Dad’s funeral. Completely zoned out on Valium.”

Abby sighs like Clarke is being a difficult child. “I was distraught. We had to _bury_ the man I love. The medication helped being able to sleep alone in our bed.”

“And now?” Clarke counters. “Jackson called me. He said you were _high_ during a surgery, Mom. That’s why I showed up without telling you first.”

Her mother doesn’t meet her eyes. Clarke isn’t sure if she’s still listening. “It’s been a difficult time, Clarke. I’m trying to cope the best I can.”

Tears sting Clarke’s eyes again. The guilt swells in her chest. She reaches for her mom’s hand on the table. “I know. I’m sorry. I should be here for you. Not across the country.”

Abby turns her head to give her a fleeting smile. “You have your own life. You shouldn’t have to worry about me.”

“But I do,” Clarke argues softly. “I’m really worried, Mom. Jackson thinks you need help.”

She shakes her head, dismissive. “Jackson is a wonderful friend, but he doesn’t know what I’m going through. He doesn’t understand what being a widow is like.”

Clarke tries to keep her frustration at bay, at war with her guilt. Her mother is deflecting, skipping around the issue. “I miss Dad too,” she whispers. “So much. It’s been so hard without him. I know, Mom. But this is about _you_. Whatever it is you’re taking.”

“It’s nothing, honey.” Abby insists, going for a small, reassuring smile. “I take the meds to calm my nerves. I still have troubling sleeping. But it’s not a problem. I’m in complete control.”

Clarke is at a loss. She wishes to badly that her dad was here. He would know how to get through to her. Even Wells, so thoughtful and kind-hearted, would know what to say. He was like a son to Abby.

Clarke feels helpless, useless. All she can think to do is shake her mother by the shoulders, demand she admit that she has a problem. But what if Jackson was wrong? What if Abby is just out-of-sorts because she can’t sleep properly? Her mother is grieving and alone. Maybe it can be helped if she has her family with her, looking out for her.

“Okay,” she says, exhaling deeply. “I’ll stay for a few days. If that’s okay.”

“This is your home, Clarke. You’re always welcome here.”

 

* * *

 

The next morning, Clarke wakes up to a flood of texts from her roommates. Checking in, making sure she’s okay. It thaws out some of the cold inside her from spending the night in this house. Clarke lets them know she’ll be gone and asks for some space to deal with her family.

It turns out there isn’t much for her to deal with. She has a brief breakfast with her mother. Clarke cooks them eggs, bacon, and toast. Then Abby is out the door, en route to the hospital.

Clarke is suddenly alone without any noisy roommates or work to go to. She goes through the things in her room, looking for her dad’s watch. She searches all over the house before finding it tucked in a drawer in her parents’ bedroom. Abby must have stored it there.

Clarke reads for a while and makes herself lunch. By the afternoon, she’s already feeling stir-crazy. She answers some work emails, but that isn’t enough to keep her busy. She decides to take her dad’s Chevy truck for a drive around town. The car still carries a trace of his cologne. Grief fills her lungs, drowning her in sorrow and emptiness. Clarke sits in the garage, her forehead pressed to the steering wheel, sobs wracking her shoulders.

Eventually, she’s able to breathe without sobbing. Clarke feels lighter after, like cutting the strings on a lead balloon of grief. Nothing can fill the gap in her heart that her father left behind. But taking the time to mourn him, like that first night on the rooftop, does help. She can miss him without suffocating on it. 

Clarke drives by the park her dad taught her to ride her bike at and decides to pull over. Sitting on one of the benches by the lake, Clarke draws other people walking their dogs or children playing in the grass. Then her next sketch turns into a memory of her and Wells as kids, holding hands as they skated down a steep hill, their dads watching from a distance to make sure they were safe.

Tears drip onto the page. Clarke tries to smile at the good memory, but her heart still aches. It hurts to be in Arkadia. There aren’t enough distractions from everything that she’s lost.

At sunset, Clarke drives home and finds Abby’s car already parked in the driveway. Her mother greets her when she comes in and says she has paperwork to go over. Clarke heads to the kitchen to make them dinner, hoping they can talk more. Tomorrow is Saturday. Maybe she can convince Abby to take off work and spend time together.

Clarke calls for her mother when dinner is ready. She waits, but there’s no response. After minutes pass, Clarke goes looking for her in the master bedroom.

Abby is passed out on the bed, still wearing her clothes and heels from work. Clarke gets another surge of dread. This isn’t like her mom at all. She comes over to the bed to wake her, but Abby won’t stir. She’s as good as a log, totally unconscious.

Clarke is compelled to check her breathing, just to make sure she’s alive. Then she sets off to the en suite bathroom, charged with a purpose. She needs to find out what her mother is putting in her body.

The medicine cabinet is stocked with pill bottles. All different types of drugs, most of which don’t have a prescription to them. Horror tinges Clarke’s vision, nausea rising in her. Her mother _stole_ these pills from the hospital.  

Forcing herself to remain calm and collected, Clarke steps out of the bedroom to call Dr. Jackson. He’s her mother’s long-time friend and colleague. He might know what she has to do now. Jackson thanks her for telling him and then instructs her to return the non-prescribed drugs to the hospital.

Her mother is furious when she finds out. “What have you done, Clarke?”

Clarke stands her ground, even as her chin trembles and tears threaten her eyes. “I took away your pills, Mom. You need to get clean. _Today_.”

Abby’s hands are shaking at her sides, her eyes no longer vacant but wild, frantic. “Took them _where_? Did you tell the hospital?”

“I told Jackson,” she says and adds regretfully, “He’s informing the board. He _has_ to, Mom. You can’t see patients when you’re high! You’re putting people’s lives at risk. This has to stop.”

Her mother shakes her head, pacing through the living room. “I could lose my job, Clarke! My medical license. How could you do this to me? To our family?”

Her words strike at Clarke like physical blows. “I had to,” she insists, wishing she sounded more sure, less like she’s pleading for her mother to believe her. “I’m sorry, Mom. I’m trying to help, trying to keep you from making a horrible mistake!”

Abby rounds on her, staring at her coldly. “You think this is what your _father_ would want? For you to jeopardize my career? It’s all I have, Clarke. You’ll be gone soon and then I’ll have nothing.”

“That’s not true,” Clarke objects. “I’m _here_ , Mom. I’ll help you through this.”

For a moment, she has hope that she can get through to Abby. But her mother’s gaze hardens. “I don’t need you here, Clarke. I didn’t ask you to come back.”

She flinches, then grits her teeth against the pain. This is her mother’s addiction talking. It’s not _her_. “Mom—”

“You should go back to Polis,” she continues, voice cool. “We both know that’s where you’d rather be.”

“I’m not leaving you,” Clarke whispers as tears spill out of her eyes.

Her mom acts as if she hadn’t spoken. She turns her back on her and walks into the bedroom, shutting the door behind her.

Abby doesn’t come out for the rest of the night, doesn’t answer her phone when it rings. Clarke listens to the voicemail from the hospital. Her case is being reviewed by the board and she’s been put on temporary suspension, pending investigation. Clarke tells herself it could be worse, much worse, but she still feels responsible for ruining her mother’s career.

Clarke cautiously enters the master bedroom in the morning. Immediately, she’s hit by the stench of vomit. At some point her mother got sick on the floor. Abby is passed out in bed, still, and won’t rouse when Clarke tries to wake her. She cleans up the mess and leaves water for Abby to hydrate herself when she wakes up.

Sunday stretches out before her, bleak and lonely. Clarke aches to be at brunch with Raven and Harper. She misses her roommates. But there’s work cut out for her here. She can’t wallow in self-pity.

In the kitchen, Clarke pulls out her laptop and starts research for the closest rehab center. Arkadia has none, but the next town about an hour away has Mount Weather Recovery for drug and alcohol addiction. Clarke calls the center and speaks to one of the counselors named Marcus Kane. She leaves her mother’s number with him and hopes she’ll at least answer. Then Clarke prints out a copy of the center’s brochure for Abby to look at.

Clarke spends five days total in Arkadia. She has to flush out her mother’s prescribed pills and help her through the ugly process of detox. Jackson stops by the house to monitor her mom as well, reassuring Clarke that’s doing the right thing. Abby barely speaks to her, even when the drugs are out of her system. They exist in tense, cold silence.

On her last day, Clarke kisses her mother on the cheek and promises she’ll visit soon. “Talk to Marcus,” she urges her. “He sounded nice on the phone and he’ll be expecting your call.”

The sight of her mother breaks her heart. She looks small and frail in the driveway, despite the food Clarke’s been forcing her to eat. Abby gives her a tiny nod, not quite meeting her eyes.

“Bye, Clarke.”

Clarke tells herself it will be okay. The house is clean of pills and the mess. The kitchen is stocked with groceries. Jackson will keep her informed. She won’t wait so long to visit next time. Still, a part of her feels like she’s failing her family, running away, when she gets on the plane.

 

* * *

 

She knocks on Bellamy’s door. He’s in his gray hoodie and joggers, pulling out his headphones when he opens the door. It hits her, an unexpected tidal wave. She missed him.

“Clarke.” Bellamy starts to smile, but then his eyes take her in fully. A wrinkle appears between his brows. “Are you okay?”

“No,” she says honestly. Her flight landed an hour ago. She slept on the plane, but she’s still exhausted, emotionally drained. She imagines she looks as awful as she feels. “I’m not. But can we _not_ talk about it?”

Understanding glints in his brown eyes. He knows what she wants. “Sure.”

Bellamy steps back to let her inside. As soon the lock clicks into place, Clarke is removing her shirt and pulling off her leggings. She glances over her shoulder at Bellamy, but he isn’t checking out her half-naked body. He’s watching her in concern.

Clarke huffs. “Take off your clothes, Blake.”

A frown turns down his lips. “Clarke—”

“Are you going to fuck me or not?” She demands, tilting her chin up challengingly. “Because I can find someone else that _will_.”

She isn’t playing fair, she knows. Bellamy isn’t just an anonymous fuck. He’s her roommate, her friend, and he’s allowed to be worried about her, especially after she’s been gone for five days. But Clarke doesn’t want worry right now. She wants to be fucked so hard she forgets the last week.

Bellamy’s face darkens, his jaw hardening. He yanks off his hoodie, further ruffling his messy curls, and stalks up to her, meeting her daring look with a determined smirk. “You want to be fucked?” He cups her tits, squeezing them through her bra. “I’ll give you that, sweetheart. You’ll be screaming for me.”

“I want that,” Clarke murmurs as he unhooks and tears off her bra. “Please, Bell.” The dark promise of his words flush her skin, send her heart racing with desire.

A gasp escapes her when Bellamy bites down on the swell of her breast. He marks her with his teeth, leaving behind a fresh bruise. Her hands sink into his hair, gripping tightly as Bellamy pulls at her taut nipples with his lips, sucking harshly. He teases her until she’s begging him, breathless, to get on with it.

He grabs at her ass, his fingers digging into her skin, and lifts Clarke up to throw her down on the center of the bed. An excited gasp leaves her lips when she lands and has to push herself up on her elbows. Clarke watches impatiently as Bellamy steps out of his joggers, her stomach tightening with arousal at his cock standing stiff between his legs. He looks so good. 

Bellamy retrieves a condom from his drawer, tossing it down beside her. He joins her on the bed, but when Clarke reaches out for his cock, he swats her hand away. “No. You’re going to lie back and take what I give you, Princess. That’s the deal.”

Clarke tries to pout. She doesn’t like being denied to touch or taste Bellamy. He makes the sexiest noises for her and she hasn't had that in five days. Bellamy kisses her before she can argue, pushing her onto her back. Her legs part to take him between her thighs and Clarke forgets what she was complaining about, caught up in the hot slide of Bellamy’s mouth, him sucking on her tongue. Clarke kisses him back hungrily.

His hand slips into her panties, feeling the moisture soaked there. “Is this all for me?” Bellamy taunts, running his fingers over her wet lips.

“Mmm, yes,” Clarke moans when he starts tapping on her clit, hard then soft, already driving her crazy. “Just for you.”

“Oh yeah?” He asks, mean. “You think someone else can make you come like I can, Clarke?”

She shakes her head frantically. He pulls her damp panties off with one hand, the other rubbing two rough fingers on her clit in harsh patterns. She hasn’t come in almost a week. Clarke already feels her orgasm building, sharp and fast.

Bellamy tweaks at one of her tight nipples. “What was that?”

“No,” she answers, strangled, as her breath quickens. “No, no. You fuck me so good, Bellamy—ahh!”

Her rising pleasure is cut off. Bellamy takes his hand away from her, ripping her orgasm away with him. Clarke groans miserably, dropping her head back. Her eyes snap open at glare at him. “What the fuck, Bellamy?”

He grins, unapologetic. “Not yet. You’ll come when I say you can come.”

She’s going to _kill_ him.

Bellamy’s hands find her knees, spreading her legs open for him. Her clit is throbbing, desperate for the release she was denied. Her hips twitch impatiently and Clarke wants to grab Bellamy, force his mouth onto her cunt where she needs it.

“Please, Bellamy,” she pleads. “I want—I want—”

Bellamy grazes his lips up her inner thighs, nipping at the sensitive skin and kisses the moles she has scattered there. Her body shivers, whining at his teasing. He uses two fingers to part her lower lips and bends his head only to breathe over her, torturing her with his mouth so close. His warm breath blows over her pussy. Clarke shudders down to her toes. It's not enough. Not even close. 

“What?” Bellamy demands. He presses a light kiss to her cunt, in contrast with his rough voice. “What do you want, Princess? Tell me. I’ll give it to you.”  

Clarke whines, her hips jerking toward his face. “I want to come. Please let me come.”

Bellamy chuckles with his mouth on her, causing vibrations that make her squirm under him. “I got you.” He kisses her cunt again, slipping his tongue in to lick her slit and lap up her wetness. “I’m gonna take care of you. Don’t worry.”

Finally, he starts eating her out for real. Burying his face against her, his tongue lashes at her clit mercilessly. He anchors his arm across her hips, holding Clarke still as she writhes and moans for him. He moans with her, making sure the sound vibrates on her sensitive nub. "You taste so sweet, Clarke." 

He licks his way down her slit, laving and sucking on her labia between his lips. His fingers hold her open to delve his tongue inside, teasing her walls before he pushes his middle finger in. As he rubs at the well of her cunt, his tongue presses down on her clit, devouring her hungrily and relentlessly. 

“Fuck,” she cries out. “Oh, fuck, Bell! YES!”

Clarke covers her mouth to keep herself quiet, but it doesn’t help much. Her moans fill the bedroom, along with the filthy, wet sounds of Bellamy licking her out. Pleasure shoots through her body like lightning, building intense and deep and toe-curling good.

Clarke’s thighs tremble on the bed. “Oh, god. Don’t stop! I’m gonna come.”

“Yeah you are,” he murmurs. “Gonne come on my face, Clarke.” Bellamy lifts his head a moment to nod at her. His chin is glistening. “Touch your tits for me.”

She’s already so close to finishing. Her fingers pinching her nipples are almost too much. The world ending couldn’t stop Clarke’s orgasm then. She comes biting her knuckles so she won’t scream, her cunt fluttering hot under the assault of Bellamy’s mouth and fingers.

Clarke has to roll away from him, becoming over-sensitive from the intensity. Her knees curl up and she buries her face in her arms, feeling overwhelmed and shaky. Her breaths come in harsh pants. Bellamy rubs her back as she rides the high back down to earth.

“Holy shit,” she gasps. "That was amazing." Her eyes are closed, but she can picture Bellamy’s smug expression. “Don’t say a word.”

Bellamy laughs, throaty and sexy.

He waits for her to recover, but he isn’t done with her yet. Clarke gets exactly what she asks for. Fucked on her stomach, Bellamy’s hips slamming into her, his fingers digging into the flesh of her waist hard enough to leave bruises. He listens when she tells him, “Harder!” They have to put on music just to muffle to sounds of their loud sex and the bed creaking.

Bellamy isn’t afraid of hurting her, unlike her exes. He knows his own strength and trusts Clarke can handle it or tell him if she can’t. He gives her what she needs and for that she’s silently grateful.

When they’re done, lying there catching their breath, Bellamy kisses her bare shoulder. “Better?” He asks quietly.

Clarke meets his searching eyes with a tired smile. Her body is aching and sore in the best way. “Mhmm. Now I’m just hungry.”

Bellamy snorts. “When _aren’t_ you?”

She kicks at his leg half-heartedly and joins in his laughter, the tension melted out of her. When her limbs regain function, Clarke drags herself up and re-dresses before she goes downstairs in search of food for them.

She reaches the bottom of the steps and pauses, her attention grabbed in the living room. Murphy and Raven are sitting together on the couch. It surprises her. Clarke didn’t realize they were here. Thank God the television was on while she was in Bellamy’s room.

Although _snuggled_ together is a better word for what her roommates are doing. Raven’s head is on his chest, fast asleep with her arm thrown across his waist. Murphy is staring at the TV, a pleased smile hidden in the corner of his mouth.

He feels Clarke looking at them from the stairs and catches her smirk. “Shut up,” he bites.

Clarke raises her hands, not saying a word. She’s still smirking when she heads back to Bellamy’s room. Not wanting to interrupt the lovebirds downstairs, Clarke orders food for delivery and eats with Bellamy, reclined against his headboard. He sets up his laptop for them and gives Clarke control of Netflix, only to groan when he sees what she picks.

“No,” Bellamy says. “Absolutely not.”

“It’s a classic, Bellamy!” Clarke retorts. “And it’s one of my favorites.”

He shakes his head at her, his lip curling. “It’s _depressing_ is what it is. I’ve never watched it and I’m not going to. Who the fuck wants to watch people drown and die tragically? What’s the matter with you?”

Clarke rolls her eyes at his response and ticks the reasons off on her fingers. “A) it’s about the _romance_. Obviously. B) Leo and Kate are like the bisexual dream. And C) that _car scene_. Hot as fuck.”

Bellamy gives up to her pouting and insisting that he has to watch _Titanic_ at least once. She suspects he feels bad for her after her week from hell, but Clarke isn't complaining. They watch the movie sharing Bellamy’s headphones between them. His room smells of pizza and sex and it's kind of awesome. Comfortable, too, in a way Clarke never felt in Arkadia. 

They’re at the quiet scene where Jack is drawing Rose when she feels Bellamy’s gaze on her. Clarke turns her head. “You know you can talk to me,” he says softly. “About whatever. If you ever need to.”

His offer makes her smile. “I know, Bell. Thanks.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's my [tumblr](http://www.kombellarke.tumblr.com) if you guys wanna cry about Bellarke/The 100 with me <3


	7. To The Stars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I knew it. You’re getting some aren’t you, Griffin?”
> 
> Harper’s gaze snaps to her and Clarke laughs awkwardly, caught. “What makes you say that?”
> 
> “Please,” Raven scoffs. “You were dying to get laid weeks ago. Now you haven’t looked twice at anyone when we got out. Not to mention your phone blowing up all night.”
> 
> She nods at Clarke’s phone just as it buzzes. Bellamy is texting her from where he’s supposed to be playing basketball with Miller. She sent him a picture of her and the girls dressed up. _Hot_ , is his reply. _i can’t wait to tear that dress off of u._
> 
> Raven’s eyes narrow at her. “Spill.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you that are still alive after that ep...this chapter is for you ;-) I'm posting this from the grave. Bellarke has murdered me and I am so grateful. We stan true love, huh? 
> 
> Seriously, thank you for supporting this fic. Enjoy!

 

* * *

 

Clarke spots the bob in Murphy’s throat when they come downstairs, their heels clicking on the steps. His blue eyes are pinned on Raven in her black halter dress, jumping from her bare shoulders back to her made-up face. Her hair is free of its ponytail, falling in silky waves.

He looks at her in awe like he can’t believe she’s real. It baffles her how Raven doesn’t see it. Murphy turns his face away so he doesn’t stare, but there’s no mistaking the naked longing in his eyes.

Raven’s attention is on her phone. “Luna says she can get us into _Flow_. No waiting.”

Clarke smiles, but her excitement for their girls’ night out is dimmed at the moment. There’s a strange ache in the pit of her stomach. Part of it is sympathy, she thinks, for Murphy. His feelings for Raven are clearly deep, yet he’s keeping them locked away. Suffering in silence.

The other part feels like wistfulness. When has _anyone_ looked at Clarke like that? Like the world stopped when she walked into the room. She’s never seen that wonder and affection aimed at her. Her exes cared about her, desired her obviously, but they weren’t in love with her. Not like that.

Clarke shakes off her melancholy thoughts as she, Raven and Harper ride to the club downtown. Tonight is supposed to be about _fun_. The three of them dancing and letting go of their stress. Clarke needs it as much as Raven does, getting over her break-up with Wick.

 _Flow_ is less chaotic than other clubs, more exclusive. The VIP lounge that Raven’s friend Luna gets them into is outdoors, separate from the noisy dance floor. The warm August air has cooled down to a comfortable temperature in the night.

Outside, they’re facing a glowing waterfall with string lights suspended above them and low music playing, allowing for people to talk and drink in peace.

They sip on mermaid mules, which come in neon blue color, while Raven dishes about Wick. “He was fed up with me being ‘emotionally unavailable’,” she mutters. “Whatever the fuck that means.”

Clarke’s brows scrunch together. “Didn’t you guys agree it was casual?”

Raven gestures at her emphatically. “ _Exactly_. I wanted to take things slow. I mean, I liked him. But he just kept pushing me into shit!”

“He wanted to be closer to you,” Harper says softly. “That’s what you do when you’re into someone, Rave. You push forward _together_.”

Raven scoffs to voice her disagreement. Clarke turns her eyes to Harper. “When did you meet Monty’s family?”

Harper smiles as she sips on her drink. “Our third date. He took me to his mom’s house for dinner. It was lovely.”

“Wow,” Clarke murmurs. “Wasn’t that fast for you?”

She shrugs. “We moved at our own pace, I guess. He introduced me to his mom as the love of his life.” Harper’s hazel eyes gleam at the memory. “We just knew.”

“How?” Raven demands skeptically.

“I trusted him,” Harper responds. “I didn’t put up barriers, you know? I _wanted_ to be closer to him.”

Raven shakes her head, stirring the ice in her glass. “How was I supposed to trust Wick? I barely knew him. And he obviously didn’t know me at all.”

Harper’s voice is gentle, trying not to upset her. “He couldn’t _get_ to know you. You didn’t give him the chance. Love can’t grow on barren ground. You have to give a little, to gain something.”

“Ugh.” Raven’s nose wrinkles. “I’m not drunk enough for this, babe.”

Thankfully, the mood lightens when the girls laugh. They order another round of drinks. Raven sucks down her second mermaid mule before she responds to Harper’s insightful comments.

“I wasn’t looking for love,” she mutters. “I just wanted a guy with the balls to stick around. And fuck me right.”

“Cheers,” Clarke says, grinning as she raises her glass. “I’ll drink to that, ladies.”

Her friends laugh as they clink glasses. The conversation turns to lighter topics as they drink, discussing Raven’s progress with the app she’s working on and some TV shows they all watch. Once they’re nice and buzzed, they finally link arms and head to the dance floor.

As Clarke dances, she lets her worries about her mother’s health fall away for one night. She just wants to be present, in the moment, losing herself to good music in the air and the buzz in her veins.

The girls stick together, even as Clarke feels the hungry gazes on them. One guy tries to catch her eye. He’s attractive and well-built with muscled biceps and thick, dark hair, but she feels nothing. Not the slightest interest to go home with him or even grind on the dance floor just for fun.

When Clarke tips her head back and closes her eyes, there’s only one head of curls she wants to sink her fingers into. One pair of strong arms she’d like to feel around her waist, dancing with her. Next time they go out, when their friends are too drunk to be suspicious, Clarke looks forward to rocking against him on the dance floor.

After half an hour, the girls return to the lounge to hydrate themselves. Harper nudges her knee when they collapse onto the cushioned chairs.

“I saw that tall guy trying to get your attention,” she teases. “Why don’t you go dance with him?”

Clarke shrugs, chugging her water. “Nah, I’m good. Girls night out, right?”

A glint ignites in Raven’s dark eyes at her dismissive answer and a sly smirk curls her red lips. “I knew it. You’re getting some aren’t you, Griffin?”

Harper’s gaze snaps to her and Clarke laughs awkwardly, caught. “What makes you say that?”

“Please,” Raven scoffs. “You were dying to get laid weeks ago. Now you haven’t looked twice at anyone when we got out. Not to mention your phone blowing up all night.”

She nods at Clarke’s phone just as it buzzes. Bellamy is texting her from where he’s supposed to be playing basketball with Miller. She sent him a picture of her and the girls dressed up. _Hot,_ is his reply. _i can’t wait to tear that dress off of u._

Raven’s eyes narrow at her. “Spill.”

Clarke feels a flash of guilt as her eyes drop to the bottle in her hands. She stays quiet, her throat suddenly bone-dry. The water doesn’t help this time.

“Is it that scary girl you went home with at Nightblood?” Harper presses.

“No, that’s not it,” Raven cuts in before she can lie and say yes. “You said you didn’t even get her number.”

Harper is even more intrigued. “A _secret_ hook-up? Who is it?”

It sits on the edge of Clarke’s tongue, burning. The thing is, she _wants_ to tell them. To gush about how good the sex is with Bellamy. How hot is is sneaking around.

They sexted while she was at work today and Clarke had a hard time keeping a straight face in front of Nia, her cheeks flushed during their meeting. Clarke snuck off to the ladies’ room after, fingering herself while Bellamy whispered filthy things in her ear over the phone.

When they talk about sex, Clarke has to shut her mouth, pretend she has nothing to share. That’s what you do with your girl friends and she hates lying about it, the secret bursting inside her. But she can’t tell them.  

Raven will be pissed. It will become a Thing among the four of them, as roommates and cause unnecessary drama. Clarke can’t imagine what it will do to their friend group too, if it will provoke tension that two of them are hooking up or if their friends will tease them, poke their noses in.

Clarke doesn’t want that scrutiny over a casual thing and she knows Bellamy doesn’t either. That’s why they’re not telling anyone. It just _is_. No one else’s opinions matter.  

“No one,” Clarke says, acting casual despite her heart’s pounding. “Just this guy in my yoga class.”

“Do we get to meet him?” Harper asks, already getting excited.

“Nope,” she says immediately, firmly. “It’s nothing. We’re not serious. I’m not introducing him to anyone.”

Harper pouts her disappointment, while Raven is eyeing her doubtfully. “Not serious, but you’ve been sleeping together exclusively for, what? A month?”

“Who said it was exclusive?” Clarke counters. “He hooks up with other girls all the time. There’s no commitment.”

Raven lets it go, reluctantly, but there’s still suspicion lingering in her eyes that puts Clarke on edge. It’s a miracle they’ve been able to fool her this long. Raven is the smartest person she knows and she’s stubborn too, like a dog with a bone. She won’t leave it lying forever.

 

* * *

 

Clarke lets herself into the apartment. Her mind is rolling ahead of her with thoughts about work, the project Roan put her in charge of, and her mother. Abby sounded better on the voice, clear, but Clarke still worries.

She’s headed straight for the stairs, only to stop short when her eyes land on the sofa. Bellamy is asleep, his head resting on the back of the couch, mouth hanging open. His snoring sounds like the rumbling of the truck. He has a book open in his lap, his glasses askew on his nose.

A fond smile tugs at Clarke’s lips. Setting down her keys, she takes a moment to admire how honestly adorable he looks. She swears that sometimes Bellamy is a 70-year-old man trapped in a 28-year-old’s body. He complains about his aching joints like an old man does.

Clarke walks over to nudge him awake. He’ll bitch and moan about his stiff neck for days if he sleeps like that. She takes the book off his lap first, placing it on the coffee table before she jostles his shoulder.

His eyes crack open. Bellamy squints at her, confused, before recognition sets in. He smiles sleepily. “Hey.”

“Hi,” Clarke says. “You might want to sleep in your bed unless you want to hurt your neck, grandpa.”

Bellamy scoffs at her, removing his glasses to rub at his eyes. “ _Grandpa_. Right. You don’t seem concerned about me throwing out my hip when I fuck you.”

She giggles at that. “I’m keeping you young.”

He pushes himself to his feet and takes her advice, dragging himself upstairs. Clarke is about to join him, but the book on the table catches her eye. _Stardust_ by Neil Gaiman. She’s curious what Bellamy is reading these days. He consumes books like no one else she knows, having an endless thirst for knowledge.

Wells used to read a lot too. It makes Clarke smile fondly again as she picks up the book and flips through it. There’s a gas station receipt tucked inside the front cover. And scribbled on the back of it she sees her name in Bellamy’s handwriting.

Clarke’s curiosity swells. Bellamy always has recommendations for her. She slips the receipt out to see what he wrote. CLARKE, in big block letters. Then a page number.

Clarke finds the page and the passage Bellamy has marked. Her eyes skim the quote: “ _She says nothing at all, but simply stares upward into the dark sky and watches, with sad eyes, the slow dance of the infinite stars_.”

Chills break out on her skin. She loves the quote. Instantly adores it. And something warm melts in her chest knowing Bellamy thought of _her_ when he read it.

She sits down on the sofa, curling her legs up underneath her. Careful not to lose Bellamy’s place, Clarke flips to the beginning of the book and starts reading. Time evaporates and she loses herself in the magical flow of words, the new world that sucks her in. She’s only brought back by the insistent knock on the front door. Reluctantly, Clarke puts the book down and rises to answer it.

Her ex-boyfriend stands on the other side, impatiently rocking on his heels.

“Finn,” she gasps, eyes widening. “What are you doing here?”

They haven’t seen each other or spoken in months. Clarke made sure to visit the apartment for the rest of her things and returning her key when no one was there. The first month, Finn had been sending her texts asking to talk, but they went unanswered and had finally stopped coming in.

Finn pushes his hair away from his face. It’s shorter now, Clarke notices, with a twinge behind her ribs. She used to cut it for him when they were together. Is he doing it himself these days? Or is another girl cutting it for him?

Clarke hates the thoughts that crop up. She hasn’t thought of Finn in a long time and she wants to keep it that way. She _doesn’t_ want him standing in her doorway or whatever it is he’s here for.

“Hey, uh. Do you think we could talk?” When Clarke just stares back at him, he bounces again, a sign of his nervous energy. “You didn’t respond to my texts.”

Clarke crosses her arms over her chest. “There’s a reason for that.”

Finn’s expression grows pained. She’s tempted to laugh and slam the door in his face. “I know I hurt you. I’m sorry, Clarke. Please, just give me one chance to prove it.”

She doubts that will happen. Clarke is over her romantic feelings for him, but she hasn’t forgiven him either. He hurt her on purpose, like she told Bellamy.

“Ten minutes,” he pleads, pulling on his puppy face. It’s sad that those big, brown eyes used to work like magic on her. She once thought he was sweet. Now, it feels manipulative, hollow.

Clarke doesn’t want to see him again. She definitely doesn’t want to invite him in, to invade the space she carved out for herself. But this could bring them both closure. Give them both a chance to move on for good.

She holds up her hand. “If I let you in, the texts have to stop. Permanently.”

“You got it,” Finn agrees, too quickly. He isn’t hearing her. He’ll say yes to anything to get his foot in the door.

“Ten minutes,” Clarke orders. “And you’re gone.”

She turns on her heel and hears Finn following her, the door clicking shut. She takes them to the kitchen where there can be a whole table between them and someone could easily walk in. Clarke takes a seat, her ex-boyfriend sitting across from her.

Finn’s eyes run over her face. “You look good, Clarke.”

“I _am_ good,” she snaps. Maybe it’s petty, but she wants to rub his nose in it. He didn’t ruin her. He doesn’t have that power.

Finn nods. His eyes dart all over the kitchen next, taking it in. He’s so jumpy Clarke has to wonder if he’s on something. “So you live here now?”

Her eyes narrow. “I didn’t tell you that. How did you find me?”

Shame flashes over his face, covered in a blink. He clears his throat. “A friend that works in Azgeda’s maintenance. He got your address—”

“Christ, Finn,” Clarke swears, rubbing at her temples. “He snooped for it, you mean. Helped you _stalk_ me.”

“I’m not stalking you!” Finn protests. The loud outburst makes her jump. “I wanted to see you. If you just answered my calls or my texts—”

She shakes her head, cutting him off. They’re not getting into this again. This was a huge problem in their relationship before, the pushing of boundaries, invading privacy. Somehow, he always turned it around on her. Like a magician, the sleight of hand trick. _If_ you _answered. If_ you _hadn’t been distant. If_ you _hadn’t smiled at that guy._

Clarke made excuses for Finn’s behavior and jealousy, but she knows better now.

“That was an invasion of my privacy,” she says firmly, holding his gaze. “And it stops now. After today, you won’t contact me or drop by unless you invited. Is that clear?”

Finn frowns, arguments lining up on his tongue. “Don’t do this. We were great together. You _know_ we were. All I’m asking for is another chance.”

“I’m not giving you one.” Clarke tries to be as blunt and detached as she can, so he understands. “You betrayed me. You lied to me. I can’t trust you ever again, Finn. It’s over. This is about closure.”

She can sense Finn’s growing desperation.  He’s getting even more twitchy. “I haven’t seen Ontari since you left. I haven’t even kissed anyone else. I only want you, Clarke. We belong together.”

Clarke sighs, frustration prickling under her skin. He isn’t listening at all. No owning up to his mistakes. His apologies are just practiced words like he’s reading off of a script. She just wants to fast-forward to the end of this conversation. 

“I gave you your space,” Finn continues frantically, his voice gaining volume. “What more do you want from me?”

She doesn’t like the look in his eyes. Almost crazed. Clarke has never been afraid of him before, but his agitation makes her uneasy now. His anger is an unpredictable force. She keenly remembers how he attacked Bellamy.

And he’s had plenty of time to build it up to go with this story in his head. They _belong_ together. She’d laugh if the situation were different. What does that even mean? If there were meant-to-be, why had he ruined it so callously?

Her pulse picks up, but Clarke keeps her expression blank. “Now? I want you to leave, Finn.”

She scoots her chair back, ready to get up. This conversation is a dead end. It isn’t on her to explain his cheating or pacify him when he’s upset. Not anymore.

His hand darts out and latches onto her wrist. “No,” he cries. “We’re not done talking. You’re not leaving me again, Clarke!”

“Get your hands off of me,” Clarke says through her teeth.

She tears her arm out of his grip and stands up, putting the chair in between them. Clarke regrets letting him in. This was obviously a mistake. Stupid of her to think they could handle their break-up like reasonable adults.

Footsteps thump on the stairs. Bellamy enters the kitchen, his eyes seeking hers. Clarke’s breath leaves her lungs in a relieved exhale. His brows draw together, concerned at her body language. He looks at her searchingly and she nods that she’s okay.

Finn turns in his seat to see what she’s looking at. Bellamy notices him too, his expression darkening, furious. His whole body tenses up. Even with the animosity crackling in the air, Clarke suddenly feels safe.

“Why the fuck is _he_ here?” Finn demands.

“ _Me_? I live here, asshole,” Bellamy retorts, stepping further into the kitchen. “What are you doing here? I thought Clarke made it perfectly clear she’s done with you.”

Finn pushes to his feet, flying so quickly from irritated to enraged that it makes her head spin. “Don’t speak for her!” He snaps his head back to Clarke, eyes wild. “You’re living with this guy?”

Clarke straightens up, raising her chin. “Yes. And my roommate’s going to make you leave right now. If you don’t walk out the door.”

Bellamy is tensed behind him, fists clenched at his sides, nostrils flaring. Hellfire waiting to be unleashed. He’s ready to throw Finn out on his ass, his anger caged behind his eyes. But not until she gives the okay.

That’s the difference between him and Finn. Bellamy learned to temper his violent impulses. He only uses aggression now to protect people or teach them to defend themselves. Even his fight matches are against voluntary opponents.

Finn stares at her, gauging how serious she is. He looks betrayed, as if he has any right. His fingers flex at his sides in aggravation. But this time he backs down. His shoulders slump as the fight goes out of him. Finn leaves the kitchen, giving Bellamy a dark look as he passes.

Bellamy follows him out. The door shuts, the lock clicking into place. Clarke is rubbing her temples again when Bellamy returns to the room. His brown eyes carry fire. “What the hell was he doing here?”

“He showed up. I invited him in to talk.” Bellamy’s mouth drops open, but Clarke lifts her palm up. “Spare me the lecture. It was stupid. I get it.”

Bellamy huffs to himself. He crosses over to her. “Are you okay?” His voice is gruff, but she knows him well enough to read the concern under his anger.

Clarke sighs, her lips twisting with displeasure. “I wish that’d gone better. I didn’t want us to end on ugly terms. But I’ll be fine.”

“You always are,” he murmurs.

She chooses not to argue with that. The last half hour has been emotionally draining. “Were you still sleeping?”

His lips quirk up a bit, sheepish. “I’m exhausted. One of my students beat the shit of me today. Your voices woke me up.”

She winces. “Sorry.”

Bellamy shakes his head. “I’m not. I’m glad I was home. I don’t want to think about if you were alone with him…” He rakes his fingers through his curls and Clarke feels cold inside. Who knows how far Finn would have gone when he lost his temper?

He looks at her sharply. “Promise me you won’t see him again, Clarke.”

“I won’t,” she swears. “That was it. I’m not opening the door next time.”

Bellamy nods, but his face is still dark, thoughts churning behind his eyes. “You could file a restraining order against him.”

“No,” Clarke says firmly. “I don’t want to drag this out. Or have him somehow turn the whole thing around on me. He’s good at that. Let’s just let it be _done_. Please.”

Bellamy doesn’t like dropping it. She can tell. It almost makes her smile. He’s a fighter in his blood. And Clarke had become someone he would fight for. She’s honored to be on that list.

Reluctantly, he nods. “It’s done then.” His hand finds her stiff shoulder, giving it a soft squeeze. “Sit down.”

Clarke listens, dropping into the chair. She’s quiet for a minute, watching Bellamy retrieve two mugs from the cabinet and set a pan on the stove. “What are you doing?”

Bellamy shoots a small smile at her over his shoulder. “I feel like you could use a drink.”

“Maybe more than one,” she mutters and then squints. “Is that chocolate?”

He nods, setting the cocoa, milk and other ingredients on the counter. “Hot chocolate. I used to make it for O when she was upset. I’ll spike it with rum, though. Don’t worry.”

Her ears perk up. Bellamy never talks about his sister. The rare mentions of her always come with a flash of old hurt and Clarke hasn’t pried despite being curious. But he says nothing else, busy stirring in ingredients into a sizzling pan. Clarke sets her chin in her hand, content to watch him work.

Bellamy brings over the two steaming mugs and sits with her at the table. The smell is delicious, spices and melted chocolate. She blows on the drink for it to cool while he immediately takes a sip. His large hand engulfs the mug. Clarke can’t help but notice.

“I know hard it is,” Bellamy starts quietly, “having to cut someone you care about out your life.”

Clarke glances up, finding understanding in his sad eyes. “Octavia?” She guesses.

His jaw clenches. Clarke hates the pain in his voice, in his eyes. “Yeah. Cutting her off…it was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do.”

Her hand reaches out for his on the table, clasping it in her own. The touch brings a tingle up her arm that she ignores. This isn’t the time for it. Clarke can’t imagine never speaking to her dad again by choice. Or her mom either. She misses them both everyday.

“I’m sorry you had to do that,” she says. “I’m sorry she hurt you.”

“I couldn’t watch her destroy herself anymore,” Bellamy murmurs, his gaze focused behind her, far away in the past. “She was so angry, all the time. Nothing I did or said helped her. I hoped cutting her off might be a wake-up call. But it still feels like I abandoned her.”

Clarke swallows, squeezing his fingers. “It’s okay to look out for yourself, Bell. Sometimes getting distance from an unhealthy relationship is the only thing you _can_ do.”

Bellamy looks down at their locked hands as he speaks. “She’s been in therapy for the past year. We talk over email every few months. But I haven’t seen seen her in a long time.” He shakes his head, letting go of her hand to wipe at his damp eyes. “Sorry. We weren’t supposed to be talking about _me_.”

Clarke smiles. “I don’t mind.”

She gives Bellamy a chance to collect himself and takes a sip of the hot chocolate. The taste is rich and sweet, with the perfect kick of rum. The warmth is comforting as it slides down her throat.

“This is great,” Clarke tells him and a small, pleased smile touches his lips. “And as much as everything with Finn sucked…I’m glad it happened. I got to move in here. I got to meet _you_.”

Bellamy stays silent, but she can see the words roll over him, touch him deeply. He ducks his head, still smiling softly. Her stomach flutters. It’s might be the most adorable thing she’s ever seen.

They hear the lock turning in the front door. Clarke takes another sip of the hot chocolate as Murphy and Raven enter the apartment, their voices carrying. Footsteps thud on the stairs and Murphy charges into the kitchen, carrying grocery bags. Just like that, the emotional moment between them is broken.

“What’s up, sluts,” he greets.

“How domestic,” Clarke coos as Murphy unpacks the bags. “You’re going to be a great house-husband one day, Murphy.”

“Damn straight,” Murphy mutters. “I carry the weight of this damn house on my back. Nobody does anything around here!”

“What was that?” Raven’s voice shouts from upstairs, affronted. Clarke and Bellamy exchange amused looks and snicker to themselves. “It sounds like you’re saying the lights and the plumbing just _fix_ themselves.”

Murphy grins and calls back, “Nothing, dear.”

“That’s what I thought,” Raven answers.

 

* * *

 

Funnily enough, Clarke isn’t planning on taking a break for lunch. They’re swamped at work and the Ice Bitch has been on a rampage. The whole office is on edge, not wanting to slack off and incur Nia’s wrath. Clarke is going to eat lunch at her desk and keep working until her phone buzzes.

Bellamy texts her: _meet me at grounders._

Excitement stirs in her stomach, followed by a wave of disappointment. She can’t leave. _Can’t,_ she replies. _Work is crazy :/_

Bellamy doesn’t answer, which is just as well. Clarke slips her phone back into her purse before she gets busted and goes back to work. She stuffs her face with salad while adjusting the graphic software on her computer monitor. It’s coming out like shit and her frustration soars.

Someone taps on her office door. “What?” Clarke barks.

Ontari sticks her head in, scowling like _she’s_ unhappy to see her. “You got a call on the main line. A prospective client wants to meet. Now.”

The words pass over Clarke’s head. She rarely meets with clients, despite Roan’s insistence that she’s good at charming them. It isn’t part of her job. “Tell them I’ll call back. I’m in the middle of something.”

“Nia says go now,” Ontari informs her. Her voice is grating enough, but the fact she spoke to Nia before giving Clarke _her_ message just pisses her off. “They asked for _you_ specifically. We need new clients after Trikru was poached from us.”

Clarke rolls her eyes. Ontari sounds like their boss’s parrot, just repeating whatever Nia says. She has no idea what she’s talking about. Clarke sets down her fork unwillingly and glances up at her.

“Fine,” she snaps. “Who’s the client? Where am I meeting them?”

“I don’t know. Some guy,” Ontari says irritability as if the questions are beneath her to answer. “I’m not _your_ secretary. Try taking the calls on your own extension.” She slaps a scrap of paper on Clarke’s desk and walks out, slamming the door behind her.

Clarke flips off the closed door even though Ontari can’t see her. The paper has an address on it, unfamiliar to her. She really hates meeting clients. Most of them are corporate dickheads, just like who she works with. But at least Clarke can get some fresh air out of the office.

She inhales the rest of her salad and snatches up her purse to head downstairs. A positive to meeting clients for lunches or appointments is Nia lets them use one of the company cars, all of which are luxury vehicles. She wants her employees to maintain a certain front about Azgeda.

Clarke chooses the black Range Rover and punches the address into GPS. It’s pouring rain outside, which adds to her poor mood. She’s taken thirty minutes out from the office building into a warehouse district.

This is definitely unusual. Most clients want to meet at five-star restaurants, which Azgeda will pay for their meal at, or in skyscraper office spaces. The GPS leads her to a wide brick building. She squints through the windshield streaked with rain.

Then Clarke sees the name and understanding clicks into place. Grounders gym.

She whips out her phone to call Bellamy. “You’re unbelievable,” she hisses as soon as he picks up.

Bellamy laughs in her ear. “I got you here, didn’t I? You’re welcome.”

Clarke is impressed, she has to admit. The idea was clever. “My boss is going to kill me when I show up empty-handed,” she retorts. “Do you need to get laid that badly?”

“ _You_ needed the break. Did you even eat lunch, Clarke?”

His concern reproaches her. She shouldn’t have bitched to him about how busy they’ve been, although living with her, Bellamy is aware of the long hours she works. “I did,” she says. “I was eating when I got this booty call.”

Bellamy laughs again and she tries not to smile. “Come inside.”

Clarke digs out her umbrella and dismounts.

She’s never been to Bellamy’s work. It’s nowhere near any places she frequents and it’s not like Clarke makes a habit of visiting gyms. Her yoga class is held in a studio right next to her office building.

Once Clarke steps inside, she realizes Grounders isn’t a regular gym. The space is split up into different sections: hanging punching bags, several square boxing rings, and an open area of red mats where the students are being instructed.

That is where Clarke finds Bellamy. Her stomach flips when he appears on one of the mats. He looks effortlessly good, in a worn beige T-shirt and workout shorts.

He’s in the middle of sparring with a young girl about half his size. She can’t be more than thirteen. Clarke is momentarily horrified, but the girl is tough. She holds her own, jabbing at Bellamy with her tiny fists.

He blocks most of her punches. Then she lands a roundhouse kick at his chest, slipping through his defenses. Bellamy gets the air knocked out of him and he grins, his face beaming with pride.

“Great job, Charlotte,” he praises her. His eyes catch sight of Clarke watching them. “We’re done for today. I’ll see you next week?”

He raises his fist and the girl, Charlotte, smirks before she bumps it. “Bye, Bellamy!”

Bellamy mops up the sweat sticking to his skin when Charlotte walks off. Clarke shakes her head as she approaches him. “That girl must be eighty pounds.”

“Yep,” he agrees. “But don’t let that fool you. She’s a tiny badass.”

Clarke isn’t sure if she should be impressed or alarmed. At Charlotte’s age, she was playing with her mom’s stethoscope and forcing Wells to be her patient. She didn’t know a thing about fighting. Still doesn’t.

“Are all of your students kids?” She asks.

“Most yeah,” Bellamy says, reaching down for his water canteen on the floor. “That’s the group I prefer to work with.”

He nods his chin and she falls into step beside him, heading across the gym. It’s noisy with other people sparring in the rings and hitting the equipment. “Because they were like you at that age?”

“Angry teenage delinquents, you mean?” Bellamy chuckles darkly, leading her over to a section of lockers. He unlocks one, exchanging his towel and canteen for his car keys. They walk to the back of the gym and exit through a door to the parking lot behind the building.

The rain is still going strong, the wind whipping them in the face. Bellamy huddles with Clarke under her umbrella.

“Yeah, I guess,” he continues. “Some come from broken families like me and they’re pissed at their shitty hand. They need an outlet or to be kept off the street. Some are just trying to survive in foster care. Some are survivors of abuse and want to learn self-defense to feel safe.”

Bellamy hits the button to unlock his car, his expression brooding as he thinks over his students. “Every kid has their own story. Coming here, sometimes it’s the only good thing they’ve got going. I wish I could help them more than this.”

Clarke’s eyes linger on the side of his face, his downturned mouth and the strong slope of his jaw. He looks hard to some, but the tough exterior is just one layer. Underneath is a big, soft heart. She doesn’t doubt that Bellamy cares for each student like he does his own estranged sister.

“They’re lucky to have you for a teacher,” she says softly.

Bellamy’s eyes flutter, saying nothing. Clarke is used to him being unable to take a compliment and just smiles to herself. She hopes it sinks it later.

They reach his car, a grey Jeep Wrangler, and climb in. Bellamy stars the ignition and gets the heater going. They both shiver as they wait for the air to warm their chilled skin. Rain pounds against the roof of the car.

“Are you hungry?” Clarke asks. They could grab lunch somewhere nearby. “Did you get a chance to eat?”

“I’m hungry,” Bellamy admits, meeting her eyes with a smirk. “But not for that.”

Clarke smirks back, holding his intense stare. She feels of an echo of his want sweep over her, fever-hot, flushing her skin. Arousal slicks between her legs.

It thrills her that Bellamy wants this as much as she does. Still. There are times where Clarke can think of nothing else, just getting her hands on him. Consumed by need. She keeps waiting for the passion to wane, to grow used to this frenzied attraction, but it hasn’t happened yet.

Bellamy’s touch still lights fires in her veins. Her desire for him runs in electric currents through her body. He gives one heated look and Clarke’s panties are soaked for him.

Bellamy reclines his seat back and Clarke climbs over to straddle his lap, her skirt bunching up her thighs. Her hands anchor on his shoulders as she leans over him, Bellamy meeting her lips halfway in a hot, open-mouthed kiss. She isn’t used to his mouth either or the way his deep kisses demand that she turns molten in his arms.

Clarke moans as his tongue skillfully flicks over hers. She loves his tongue anywhere in her body. Her hands tug at his curls as their kisses burn between them, scorching her lungs in Bellamy’s fire. She can’t breathe kissing him, yet Clarke feels grounded here, happy to burn.

He’s right. She needs this. Bellamy is his own dangerous addiction. One hit and she’ll be floating back to Azgeda on a carefree cloud.

His rough hands glide up her thighs, pushing her skirt up to her hips. Clarke unbuttons her top and drops it onto the passenger seat. Her bra unhooks next.

Bellamy breaks their kisses, running his eyes greedily across her naked chest. “Look at you,” he murmurs, taking her tits into his hands. He presses a wet kiss to her nipple. “You’re so gorgeous, Clarke.”

He urges more moans out of her as he circles her nipples with his thumbs. His fingers squeeze and pull at the tight tips. Wet heat floods her cunt with his attention and Clarke tosses her head back, baring herself to him.

The fogged-up windows provide a cover, but Clarke doesn’t actually _care_ about being seen. Not right then. That’s what Bellamy is turning into, apparently. A girl willing to have sex in a car. Shameless, consumed by desire. At this point, she’d fuck Bellamy anywhere.

As he closes his mouth over her nipple and sucks, Clarke’s hips grind down on his lap. She can feel his hard cock against her ass. “Bellamy,” she moans. “Come on.”

She needs him inside her. Aches to be filled by him. Her own fingers aren’t enough anymore. She’s only satisfied having Bellamy’s perfect, thick cock.

Bellamy raises his head, licking his moist lips. His heavy-lidded eyes glint as he runs his hands up her bare sides, wearing a playful smirk. “Where to, Miss?”

It takes her a moment, wading through the arousal fog. She can’t believe Bellamy made a _Titanic_ reference.

A husky laugh escapes her and Clarke grins at him, delighted. “To the stars.”

Together, they manage to get Clarke’s panties off and Bellamy’s shorts down his hips enough to free his cock, the tip red and leaking. She pulls at his length in hurried stripes, rubbing him through her cunt lips to collect her slickness.

Bellamy hisses as the head of his dick bumps her clit. “Condom” he grits out. “Glove compartment.”

Clarke retrieves the foil square for him to rip open and roll on quickly. His large hands clutch her waist over her skirt, guiding her to sink down onto his cock.

She lowers herself onto him, her mouth dropping open as fills her inch by inch, as deep as he can go. He stretches her walls so perfectly. She feels filled, as if a part of her were empty before.

They both exhale when she bottoms out. Bellamy’s fingers tighten on her waist. “God, you feel amazing.”

Clarke moans in agreement, clenching around his length. His dick is smooth and hot inside her. She pushes herself up, her walls dragging over him, and drops back down.  Bellamy’s low moans mix with hers as she rocks on top of him, gets a rhythm going.

He arches up to kiss her, biting hard on her bottom lip and then licking away the sting. His hands cup her ass, kneading the skin. “You’re so hot,” Bellamy breathes, their lips smeared together and panting into each other’s mouth. “Yeah, Princess, bounce on my dick.”

His raspy voice makes her impossibly wetter, sliding up and down his cock. He feels so good inside her, nice and deep. Clarke tilts her hips so her clit rubs against him when she swerves down and heat crackles low in her belly. Her nails pinch into his shoulder blades, toes curling from the pleasure.

Then Bellamy thrusts up inside her and she gasps, her fingers curling into his damp T-shirt. “ _Bellamy_ ,” Clarke moans loud. “Fuck, that’s so good!”

His hips snap upward, rubbing the swollen tip into the spot that makes her moan and writhe on top of him. Bellamy mouths at her tits, licking and sucking as Clarke loses her breath, loses her mind.

“Like that?” He growls, his eyes dark and piercing on her face as it twists with pleasure, determined to please her. “You got it. We’re gonna get you off, pretty girl. Is that want you want?”

Something glows in her chest at his words. She likes that nickname. A lot. Clarke nods helplessly. Bellamy’s eyes drop to where they’re joined, licking his lips as he watches himself push in and out of her.

“Mmm.” Her hips rock down harder, chasing the friction their movements cause. “Please, Bell, please!”

Clarke can’t do much more than gasp at that point. The angle he’s hitting with his cock it too good, too perfect. Right where she needs him. Every thrust punches a keen noise out of her. Her clit is throbbing now, an orgasm rising up hot and sweet in her core.

Clarke reaches for his right hand, guiding it to her cunt. Bellamy’s thumb finds her clit, spreading the sensitive nub around firm and quick.  No doubt can feel her clenching around him.

“Fuck, you’re tight,” Bellamy hisses, his fingers flexing on her ass. His hot, gravelly voice fills her ears over the roar of the rain, urging her closer to completion. “You’re gonna come, Clarke? That’s right. Come for me, pretty girl.”

The tension coiled in her core snaps. She goes still on top of him, her body tensing before her delicious release ripples through her. Her back arches, loud cries spilling out of her from how good and intense it feels. Her pussy clamps down on Bellamy’s length, keeping him from moving, but he lays kisses on her neck and chest through it, the skin thoroughly flushed.

“Good girl,” Bellamy murmurs, his thumb still swiping at her tingling clit. “You look beautiful when you come, Clarke. Goddamn.”

Her forehead drops onto his as she sucks air into her lungs. She melts in his arms. Bellamy slips his thumb into his mouth to lick up her wetness. The sight is so sexy her cunt twitches, fresh desire already stirring inside her.

Clarke leans down to kiss him, lazy and soft. She gets her hands under his T-shirt, lightly running her nails over the planes of Bellamy’s stomach, his treasure trail.

As they kiss, Bellamy strokes her back with the rough flat of his palm and although the motion is soothing, Clarke shivers because it’s _him_. A thing Bellamy does when he wants to help ease her down from a high.

Her limbs are still a bit shaky, but she starts rolling her hips into him, unhurried. Bellamy moans into her mouth. “Yeah, Princess? Good?”

It makes her smile, him checking-in with her. Leave it to Bellamy to be thoughtful when he’s still buried inside her, waiting to come. Her cunt is fluttering and sensitive, making her shudder with every slow drag of his cock, but yes it’s good.

“Yeah Bell,” Clarke answers, kissing and sucking wetly under his jaw. “I wanna feel you come inside me.”

Bellamy’s hands claim her hips, holding her in place for him to fuck into her. She can tell by his heavy breathing that he’s close. Clarke draws his earlobe between her teeth, biting down teasingly.  She feels his dick twitch inside her.

“Princess,” he groans, low and hot. “Talk to me.”

Clarke grins. She loves Bellamy’s dirty mouth when they fuck. Now he wants to hear her too. “Mmm, yeah, fuck me, Bell,” she whines into his ear, squeezing her inner muscles around him. “That’s so good. I love feeling your cock inside me.”

Bellamy makes a sexy growl in his throat. “Yeah? You love it, Clarke?”

His thrusts grow rough and sloppy as his balls draw up, getting ready to come. The sounds slick from how wet she still is for him. Clarke grabs his hand again, guiding it to her sleek inner thighs and dripping pussy where his cock is disappearing into.

“Feel that?” She murmurs. “It’s all because of you. You make me so wet, Bell.”

“Fuck!” Bellamy grits out.  His thighs jerk underneath her. “I’m gonna come.”

Clarke keeps whispering in his ear, urging him on, saying how bad she wants it. She moans with him when Bellamy’s cock pulses hot inside her, his hips jerking hard one final time. His strong hands clutch her waist through the surges of his orgasm.

Bellamy’s head falls back against the car seat, spent. She can’t believe how good he looks, all fucked-out. Mouth parted open, eyelids heavy and intense eyes glazed over. Clarke scratches her nails over his scalp and he makes a low, pleased hum.  

“That was amazing,” he says and flashes her a lazy grin, his dimples flashing.

They clean themselves up and Clarke gets redressed, all the while teasing Bellamy about his condom stash and tissues he keeps in his _car_. He tucks the used rubber away into a plastic bag, all prepared for such occasions.

“That’s not a noble example you’re setting,” Clarke needles him, “Mr. Blake.”

Bellamy rounds the car, rolling his eyes at her. “Actually, it is. We’re being safe. And if my students need a rubber, I have plenty.”

She can’t help but laugh at that.

He walks with her back through the busy gym to the front where she parked the company car. Clarke suspects he just wants to check out the Rover. She lets him look for a minute, but her watch tells her it’s beyond time to go. She’s been out of the office for an hour.

Clarke unlocks the car and Bellamy straightens up from where he had been admiring the Rover’s rims. She moves toward him, unthinkingly, and plants a kiss on his lips in goodbye.

Immediately, Clarke freezes. They don’t kiss outside of sex. She has no idea why she just did that. Her cheeks burn at the misstep.

But Bellamy doesn’t seem to think anything of it. His hand squeezes her hip lightly. “See you later, Princess.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading lovelies.  
> Follow me on [tumblr](http://www.kombellarke.tumblr.com) <3


	8. Augustus & Jane

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Friday fam! Today is special for me because I just found I'm got into grad school 🎉 So excited. 
> 
> This has been a pretty good year so far and writing this story is definitely a part of that. Your comments/kudos give me so much joy, seriously. I am inspired by your enthusiasm. We're about half-way there guys! I'm guessing this story will be about 13-15 chapters. 
> 
> Enjoy!

 

* * *

 

Her mother clears her throat, visibly uncomfortable. “Clarke, I…I don’t know how to tell you how sorry I am.”

A tickle crawls up Clarke’s throat. She hardens her jaw, determined not to start crying in the middle of a restaurant. She’s thankful for the sunglasses covering her eyes, even though the umbrella perched above their table shields most of the sun’s glare.

Clarke says nothing, waiting to hear what her mother has to say. They’re at Café Marie, Abby’s favorite spot for lunch. She flew to Arkadia for the weekend to check-in on her mother and Abby offered to take her out so Clarke wouldn’t have to cook for them after she landed.

“I’ve had a lot of time to think since then,” her mom continues, the words wavering with her voice. “And I’m ashamed of how I treated you, sweetheart. I wasn’t myself, but that’s not an excuse. I’m so sorry, Clarke.”

Clarke nods slowly. She takes a minute to mull over her response. Her mother’s cold anger was hurtful, but she cares more about Abby’s sobriety. Changing her behavior than worrying about the past.

“I forgive you for that,” she says softly. “I’m just happy you’re doing better, Mom.”

She is. Unlike her, Abby isn’t wearing sunglasses. Her eyes are clear, regaining some of their sharpness. Her face is still haggard, worn down by her addiction and sadness, but Clarke can tell she’s stronger now. Fighting back.

“I am,” her mother agrees, as Clarke takes a sip of her iced tea. “These past few weeks… _months_ , even…have been challenging. I’ve started attending a support group for widows.”

The admission makes Clarke’s eyes widen. She offers her mother a pleased smile. “Really? That’s great, Mom.”

Abby smiles back. It’s small, still wearing her grief in tight lines around her mouth, but genuine. “Thelonious recommended it. He said the group he started for parents that have lost children helped his healing process. It’s cathartic being able to talk about Jake again.”

They fall into silence as they eat their meals, weighed down by their shared sorrow. Clarke keenly feels the loss of her dad in the empty chair at their table, where he should be. With his girls. But as much as it hurts, missing him, it’s good too. The grief feels less like it’s crushing her alone and more like it’s split between them.

Then, Abby looks up from her plate. “Did I tell you about the time your father took me here on our first date?”

A smile spreads on Clarke’s face. She heard her dad’s version of the story but not her mom’s. “No. What happened?”

The lunch goes on more pleasantly than Clarke expected. Their sadness is chased away by remembering the good memories of Jake Griffin. There are a lot of them to reminisce over.

After their meal ends, Clarke goes with her mother back to the house. Abby has free time to spend with her now that the hospital has let her go. She feels bad for her mother losing her career that she worked so hard for, but privately Clarke thinks it’s for the best. Her mother isn’t in the right frame of mind to see patients.

She doesn’t say anything about rehab. Clarke decides not to push.

Abby admits she has difficulty filling her days without work. She’s been gardening a lot, a hobby she finds healing for her broken spirit. She shows Clarke the small garden she’s been working on in the backyard. The house is still often lonely, so Abby has people over from group and eats with Thelonious Jaha regularly.

That night, Abby invites Thelonious over for dinner and Clarke can catch up with the man that was a second father to her. The three of them sit down to watch one of the old football games that Jake had taped. Clarke likes to think her dad and Wells were visiting with them then.

After Thelonious goes home, Clarke is sitting in the front room, sketching and humming to herself. She thought her mother had headed off to bed. But Abby’s shadow falls across the paper, standing over her shoulder.

“Who’s that?”

“Hmm?” Clarke glances up, finding her mom’s curious expression. Abby has never expressed much interest in her hobbies before, so she’s a bit thrown.

She looks down on the page where she’d been drawing freely, letting her mind wander.  It’s a sketch of Bellamy, sitting on the rooftop in the plastic chair. He has a cigarette dangling from his mouth, the wind rustling his black curls.

The memory of the late night smoking on the roof together warms her. “Oh,” Clarke says. “That’s Bellamy. My roommate.”

Abby nods, smiling slightly. “Handsome,” she notes. “So, you’re living with him…”

She trails off suggestively and Clarke can’t help but grimace at the awkwardness. “Are we going to talk about boys, Mom?”

“Or girls,” her mother adds. “If you want.”

Clarke laughs quietly. “That’s okay. I appreciate the effort though.”

Her mother presses a kiss to the crown of her head. “All right. Goodnight, honey.”

On Sunday, Clarke hugs her mother tightly goodbye. Her heart isn’t leaden with worry this time. Abby is strong. She’ll be okay. When her mom says she’ll come to visit Clarke in Polis soon, Clarke believes her.

 

* * *

 

She makes it back to the apartment in time to nap before the party. It’s Monty’s birthday and Harper has arranged a surprise party for him at her and Miller’s place with the usual gang and a few others.

At six, Clarke gets dressed, made up and heads upstairs to help with the party preparations. Bellamy and Miller have been put on balloon duty. Raven and Murphy are making the alcohol run. Bryan is handling snacks in the kitchen while Jasper decides what activities will be played.

Clarke is in charge of the cake, which she grabbed on the way home. She has to take over balloons as well since Miller and Bellamy have taken to sword-fighting with them instead of blowing up party balloons.

The plan is to have Harper bring Monty back to her apartment after they have dinner. The other guests arrive in the meantime. They all get to meet Maya, the girl Jasper is not-so-secretly infatuated with. Harper invited her, hoping to get Jasper to finally make a move after weeks of pining.

The way Maya laughs at everything that comes out Jasper’s mouth, it’s clear she feels the same.

Clarke is also introduced to Emori. She’s been visiting her brother in Lyon, France and traveling the past few months.

“I’ve been enjoying a single, nomadic existence,” Emori tells her.

Clarke’s lips quirk. “That sounds like the dream. I’ve always wanted to visit France, see the Louvre”.

Clarke finds out Emori is Murphy’s ex-girlfriend. They broke up last year and although there’s some underlying tension between them, they act civil toward each other. Emori is still friends with the rest of them. Raven practically throws herself at the other girl when she walks through the door, her face lit up beautifully.

Raven and Emori are talking excitedly, getting caught up, while Clarke converses with Maya. The quiet, sweet girl works at the Polis Museum of Art. Clarke is enjoying talking to her about the collection they have when Emori suddenly breaks away, marches over to Bellamy and punches him hard on the shoulder.

“Ow.” Bellamy winces, turning an irked glare on her. “What the hell? I thought you were happy to see me!”

“Oh, I am,” Emori says, although she’s scowling at the moment, looking pissed. “That was on behalf of my best friend. You know. Echo?”

Guilt rolls over Bellamy’s expression at the mention of his ex-roommate, his brows creasing. “Right. Look, I didn’t mean—”

Emori waves him off. “I’m just giving you a hard time. Echo is good. She came to visit me in Lyon, got nailed by this hot French guy. Don’t sweat it.”

Bellamy rubs the back of his neck. “Uh, good for her.”

Jasper announces to the room that Harper is on her way up with Monty. The lights shut off and they turn into a bunch of giggling children, shushing each other. At last, they hear the locks turning in the door and the lights flick on in time to capture Monty’s stunned expression.

They shout at him in a chorus of “surprise” and “happy birthday,” while Harper beams behind him, looking proud of pulling this off. She slides her arms around Monty’s waist, placing a kiss on his cheek.

“Happy birthday, my love,” Harper murmurs.

Monty’s cheeks are pink, looking overwhelmed by all of the attention, but managing a smile. “Thanks, guys.”

Jasper charges over to tackle Monty in an eager hug. “Happy birthday, brother! Now let’s break out the alcohol.”

Murphy takes over as bartender and the drinks start flowing freely. Emori ropes everyone into a game of werewolf, with mixed reactions, but they all give in when she cites how much she missed playing with them.

“Don’t let the sentiment fool you,” Murphy tries to warn them. “She’s a _menace_.”

His ex-girlfriend flashes her teeth at him in a predatory smile.

Emori kicks all of their asses as the undiscovered werewolf, while Murphy is unfairly accused and put on trial several times. Clarke’s sides ache from laughing so hard at the outlandish excuses her friends come up with to avoid being cast as a werewolf.

It’s a fun night among their rowdy group. The party winds down after a few hours of games and singing happy birthday to Monty—off-key, drunkenly—before midnight. The birthday boy and Jasper pass out on the sofa shortly after the party breaks up. Murphy takes the opportunity to draw on both of their faces with a Sharpie marker.

Clarke isn’t as tired, thanks to her power nap earlier. She stays behind at the apartment to help with the clean-up and is washing the appetizer trays in the sink when she feels a light touch on her back.

Bellamy appears beside her, returning from taking out the overflowing trash. He leans back against the kitchen counter. “Hey. How’d it go with your mom?”

“Not bad,” she answers. “She’s really doing better, I think. Taking it one day at a time.”

Bellamy nods, lips curving upward. “That’s good.”

Clarke’s chest warms at his genuine happiness, for her sake. She didn’t miss that he’s the first to check-in on her since she got back. Silently, Clarke appreciates that they can manage to sleep together without it screwing up their friendship.

With Bellamy, she doesn’t have to worry if he’s playing some mind game with her. What they have is easy, uncomplicated, fun.

She fills him in on the brief trip, seeing Wells’ dad again, while handing him the clean dishes for him to dry. Offhand, Clarke mentions her mother is interested in visiting Polis. She’s torn on how she feels about it.

“Does it make me a bad person,” Clarke asks quietly, “if I secretly wish it was my dad that was going to visit instead of her?”

She feels guilty saying out loud but trusts that Bellamy isn’t going to judge her for it. Before the words fall off her tongue, Clarke has an instinct that he will understand how she feels. Because he’s Bellamy.

Bellamy huffs through his nose in disagreement. “God, _no_ , Clarke. You were closer to your dad. It’s okay to be disappointed he didn’t get to see your life here. And you put that life on hold, twice now, to help your mom when she needed it. You’re not a bad person. Far from it.”

His words spread the warmth through her, tingling in her fingers, behind her ribs. She ducks her head, smiling to herself as she scrubs. “Thanks.”

They work in comfortable silence for a few minutes. Then Clarke nudges his shoulder with hers, gearing up to tease him. “How relieved are you that Echo didn’t show up for this?”

Bellamy’s expression makes her laugh out loud. His eyes are wide with pretend horror, mouth twitching as he fights not to grin. “Holy shit. You have no idea.”

“Don’t worry, Bell,” she taunts. “Echo’s got her hands full with a hot French guy. Well…not her _hands_.”

His nose wrinkles with disgust. “Thanks for that mental image. What are you, twelve?”

She sticks her tongue out at him. Bellamy retaliates by splashing her with water from the sink. Clarke tries to splash him back, but Bellamy sneaks his hands around her and starts tickling her ribs.

“Hey!” Clarke splutters in between giggles. “That’s _cheating_.”

She elbows him in the gut. Bellamy’s chest rumbles with his own laughter, his fingers merciless as they dance up and down her sides. Her body shakes with laughter against him.

A flash goes off in the kitchen. They both stop and turn their heads to where Harper stands in the doorway with her Polaroid camera. She’s been snapping photos of the party all night.

“Didn’t mean to interrupt,” Harper says, smirking. “Carry on.”

Clarke steps away from him when she leaves, her cheeks flushed. She’s both embarrassed and irritated like she has been caught doing something wrong. The easy air between them gets a ripple, suddenly taut.

Bellamy pushes his fingers through his hair. “Uh, I’m gonna go help put away the tables.”

She nods, focusing on the running water in the sink. Bellamy brushes past her and Clarke jolts, her skin left buzzing from his body’s proximity. There’s a part of her that longs to call him back, not wanting him to go.

Clarke splashes some cool water on her cheeks. She’s being ridiculous. And _needy_. She’ll see Bellamy back at their place and in her bed later, probably. Clarke isn’t a clingy person. There’s no reason to start now.

 

* * *

 

The muggy August heat shifts into the beginning of fall. The first day of September is a cool one, the sun blocked by a sheet of clouds. Her bedroom has felt cooler than it has all summer. Except at the moment, the temperature rises from the heat in between them.

She’s in another world—a world on fire. Her fingers clench the headboard, needing something to hold on to. Even that doesn’t feel real. Her bedroom blurs around her. All Clarke can make sense of is the sweat trickling down her back, Bellamy’s deep brown eyes staring up at her, his scent filling her head.

They’ve been going at it for a while. Clarke has lost track of time. She’s already come once, with Bellamy’s fingers working her clit as she rides him. Now her hips roll down unhurriedly, just enjoying the feel of Bellamy’s cock pushed deep inside her and her tight nipples grazing the planes of his damp chest.

“Come here,” Bellamy murmurs, his voice hoarse. His fingers thread through her hair and tug Clarke down into a kiss, licking hungrily into her mouth.

He breaks away to mouth down her neck, worrying the skin with his teeth. “You look so good riding my cock,” he says. “Those gorgeous tits bouncing. Fuck. You’re unreal.”

Clarke moans softly. His words, as always, get her hot. She’s always liked being on top, but with Bellamy, it’s even better. Seeing his face looking up at her, enraptured, licking his lips as she grinds down on him. Like he could die happily, right here under her. She holds his gaze, glassy with pleasure but boring into hers, and heat smolders in her gut.

“You like that, Clarke?” Bellamy taunts, his hands squeezing her ass. “Making yourself feel good? You do, don’t you?”

“Yeah, Bell,” she breathes. Her clit slides on his pubic bone with every rocking motion, the perfect angle to make her stomach clench with pleasure. “I love it.”

He lands a smack on her ass that makes her shudder then rubs away the sting. “I know you do, babe.”

The best part is how Bellamy lies back and takes it, lets her be in control if she wants. Clarke sets the pace with the rhythm of her hips and he doesn’t demand to change it, to hurry up so they can finish. Their quickie in his car last week was fun, but there’s something delicious about taking their time with each other.

Clarke shifts on top of him and suddenly his cockhead is right where she needs it, prodding her sweet spot. “Oh!” She gasps, her nails digging into his shoulder. “Oh, Bell, that’s so good!”

Bellamy bucks his hips up, purposefully driving into the spot deep inside her, and it’s even better, so much better. Clarke whimpers from the intensity of it. Pleasure sparks through her veins and all she can do is bear down on it, grinding harder now.

“Yeah, you can take it,” Bellamy urges her, listening to her high, frantic whimpers. “That's it. You wanna come again, Clarke?”

“Yes, yes,” she chants, both as an answer and telling him not to stop what’s doing. The headboard is rattling now from him rocking up into her, but she can hardly hear the noise over her own desperate, panting breaths.

“Tell me what you need, babe.”

She reaches for his hand, guiding it to her neck so his fingers splay over her throat. Her eyes meet his again. There’s a question there, making sure that _this_ is what she wants from him. Clarke nods that it is. She trusts him.

His hand squeezes her throat lightly. He’s watching her closely, but Clarke is lost to chasing her completion, feeling the flames rising higher, threatening to swallow her whole. Her head titled back, Clarke nods for more.

“Come on, Bellamy,” she murmurs.

His fingers compress around her throat, a firm pressure. Just enough to make her gasp and feel that rush shoot through her. She’s breathless when her orgasm bursts like a fire igniting in her core, white-hot licks of pleasure going on and on. The build was slow, but it hits her hard.

Clarke collapses on Bellamy’s chest when it ends, the tension drained out of her. She’s been turned to jelly. A minute to catch her breath and then she leans up on shaky arms, kisses under his jaw.

Bellamy chuckles, stroking a hand up her sweat-damp back. “Good?”

“ _Better_ ,” she replies.

He’s grinning when she finds his mouth and kisses him, deep and slow, one hand cupping his stubbled cheek. It isn’t helping her pulse slow down. Desire still crackles hot in her blood.

Bellamy kisses her back, tongue sweeping over hers. Then he flips them over, rolling Clarke onto her back. The shift in control is fluid between them, an easy give and take. Her knees part to hitch her legs over the back of his thighs.

Her cunt is still hot and slick for him. She moans into his mouth, shuddering when Bellamy pulls his hips back and fucks into her. He starts with easy strokes, her pussy fluttering from her recent orgasm. But Clarke is good to go. Her fingers tighten on his curls to tell him it’s okay.

“That was so hot,” Bellamy says into her ear, his thrusts speeding up. “You make me crazy, Clarke. So fucking sexy when you come on my cock.”

He brushes his nose down her neck, inhaling her, and nuzzles her chest where her skin is a blotchy pink. “All flushed for me. And oh, babe, your cunt is so wet after you come. Feels incredible.”

Clarke squeezes her walls around him and Bellamy swears at the extra kick of tightness. Her hands twist through his hair. “You made me feel so good, Bell.”

Bellamy pauses lapping up the sweat dripping between her breasts. He lifts his head, his dark curls falling into his glazed eyes. Clarke feels a pull deep in her stomach. It hits her sometimes how beautiful he really is.

His lips tug into a sexy, half-smirk. “Yeah, Clarke? Tell me.”

“I can’t get enough of you,” she admits lowly. “Your cock, your mouth…” She worries his full bottom lip between her teeth and speaks against him, “I need it. All the time.”

“Mmm.” Bellamy kisses her, hot and wet, hungry for her taste. “Me too, babe. I can’t get you out of my fucking head.”

Clarke digs her heels into his thighs, urging him to fuck into her harder, that sweet drag of his dick inside her. Her nails rake down his back, feeling the firm muscles shift under her hands. Their mouths break apart to pant together.

Clarke moves with him, her hips arching up into his. “Yeah, Bell,” she moans, “Fucking give it to me!”

“Christ, Clarke,” Bellamy growls under his breath. He’s close. His breaths come heavy against her neck, his fingers gripping her waist tight enough to bruise. Then he fits his other hand between them and rolls over her throbbing clit.

“Oh, fuck!” Clarke hisses. Her hips jerk as his fingers work her clit in furious, firm circles.

“I think you can give me one more,” Bellamy presses, his voice shot and deep like she loves during sex. “Come on, pretty girl.”

Her head falls back against the bed, her toes curling as sharp pleasure spears through her. With Bellamy fucking her like this and kneading her clit mercilessly, he’s going to rip another orgasm out of her.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” She isn’t sure if she wants to shove his hand away or beg him not to stop. It’s too much and not enough. She’s so close. Then the pressure crests and Clarke cries out, her body writhing with it. “ _Bellamy!_ ”

“That’s it,” Bellamy murmurs, thumb stroking her clit through her orgasm. “Good girl.”

Her cunt pulses on his dick. He buries his face in her neck, his thrusts losing their rhythm when she comes. Clarke claws at his back as pleasure shoots through her veins, shorter than her last orgasm, but intense.

Bellamy comes right as her climax ends, jerking against her and lets out a deep groan. His back tenses under her hands and Clarke rubs him through it. She feels his cock twitch, releasing inside her. She didn’t care for it with other guys, but knowing she made Bellamy come is arousing in itself.

She’s twitchy and spent from her multiple orgasms. Bellamy, bless him, doesn’t linger. He pulls out and rolls away from her to throw out the condom. Clarke lays in the middle of the bed, completely useless and melted into the mattress.

She turns her cheek to look at him when Bellamy comes back, stretching out propped up on his side next to her. Clarke gives him a lazy smile, which he returns, tucking her hair behind her ear. 

“Look at you,” he murmurs, his fingers lingering on her flushed cheek. “You feel good, Clarke?”

She does, content and tired in the best way. Now’s the perfect time for a nap. She’d bet Bellamy will agree.

But then her bedroom door is being thrown open and Murphy lets himself in. “You sound like you were shooting a porno in here, Griffin.”

Clarke flies upward, her heart stopping in her chest, but it’s too late. Her and Bellamy are caught, looking exactly like they were doing what they were just doing.

“Oh my god, Murphy!” She yells. “Can’t you knock?”

Bellamy drags the sheets up to cover her, but Clarke isn’t even thinking of her nakedness right then. She’s cursing her roommate for his lack of concern with privacy and herself for forgetting to lock the goddamn door.

Murphy gapes at them it total shock for a moment, his eyes bulged wide. Then he bursts out laughing. “Holy shit! I fucking _knew_ it. You guys are screwing?”

Clarke’s face burns. Out all people to find out about them, it _had_ to be Murphy. The person that will make it his life’s mission to take the piss out of them, make them as uncomfortable as possible.

“Out, Murphy,” Bellamy growls.

“Wait!” Clarke shouts, turning her pleading eyes on their roommate. “Murphy, you _can’t_ tell anyone. Please.”

Murphy smirks, his blue eyes appraising her. “What are you offering me?”

Bellamy tenses beside her. “Murphy!”

He rolls his eyes, raising his hands to placate them. “We can discuss terms later. But rest easy, Princess. I’m not telling Raven. The last thing this apartment needs is a pissed off Raven Reyes.”

Murphy salutes them. “Happy humping.” The door shuts on his way out.

Clarke exhales with her whole body. Her face drops into her hands. “Oh my god. I forgot to lock the fucking door!”

Bellamy rubs her back. “Hey. It’s just Murphy. He’ll make some jokes, but it’ll be fine, Clarke.”

She raises her head to look at him skeptically. “Will it?”

“Yes,” he answers, sounding certain. “He won’t say anything. I’ll make sure of it.”

Her lips curl into a half-smile. “What, are you going to beat him up?”

Bellamy smirks back. “I know how to handle Murphy.”

She trusts that he will. What else can she do? Bribing their roommate comes to mind, but Clarke will try it Bellamy’s way first and see how that pans out. It feels better to let his certainty wash over her, chase away the panic.

They get up to re-dress. Clarke makes sure to lock her door to prevent any more unwanted visitors. Murphy wasn’t supposed to be home. Clarke chides herself that they need to be more careful. They’ve gotten lazy, too confident in sneaking around without getting caught.

Clarke reclines against the headboard with her laptop, intending to get some work done. “You can stay,” she offers. “As long as you don’t distract me.”

Bellamy’s eyebrows raise at that. “Generous,” he replies with a tinge of sarcasm. “I’ll be on my best behavior.”

He quickly ducks out of the room and returns with a book in his hands, wearing his square-framed glasses. Clarke grins. “Oh no, _not_ the glasses. You know I can’t resist you like that, Bell.”

Bellamy playfully curls his lip up at her, feigning disgust. “Keep your weird kinks to yourself, Clarke. I’m trying to read.”

He holds up the book as evidence and makes a show of sitting down on the bed, ignoring her as he opens the cover. Clarke fights back a laugh and fails spectacularly. She peers at the cover. He’s reading _American Gods_ now.

The only sounds in the room are the clicking of keys and quiet flipping of pages. She never grows unaware of having Bellamy there, his presence too loud. Her attraction to him is a live thing buzzing in her veins. But Clarke does find peace in having him so close. Existing quietly together.

Then she feels Bellamy start playing with her hair, twirling a strand around his finger. A smile pulls at Clarke’s mouth. She fights it. “Is your book boring you?”

“Nope,” Bellamy says, rolled onto his side, facing her. “It’s pretty good.”

Clarke hums, focused on her computer screen. “Then how can I help you?”

“You’re fine. Don’t mind me,” he answers. He gathers a few more strands and winds them around each other, forming a braid.

Clarke tries to pay him no mind, ignoring the stupid fluttering in her belly. It’s cute that he can braid hair. There’s no need to _melt_ over it. But Clarke has a weakness for having her hair played with. She’s melting. Fast.

She shuts her laptop, pushing it away from her. Bellamy glances up curiously. “Oh, are you done already?”

Clarke rolls her eyes at him. Like he had nothing to do with it. Bellamy finishes off her small braid and she hands him a hair tie to hold it. The braid is flawless, probably better than she could have done.

Bellamy leans back on his side, his book abandoned on her wooden nightstand. Clarke mirrors his relaxed pose, tucking her arm under her head.

“I found your quote, you know. From _Stardust_. ‘She says nothing at all, but simply stares upward into the dark sky and watches, with sad eyes, the slow dance of the infinite stars’.”

He arches his brow, both impressed she memorized the quote and expectant of her opinion. “What did you think?”

Clarke smiles softly. “I loved it. What made you think of me?”

Bellamy’s face turns toward the ceiling, his brows knitting together as he mulls over his answer. “It reminded me of the night we met, on the roof. You were staring at the sky like your world had ended.” He glances at her. “I guess it had.”

She remembers. The night after her father’s funeral. That day was a horrible, grief-soaked blur, but meeting Bellamy sticks in her mind as a sharp memory. He was a breath of fresh air, a shock to her system, breaking Clarke out of her numb state.

“I was thinking about what my dad used to tell me,” Clarke explains, voice hushed. “He believed humans were created from stars and we returned to the universe after death. Looking at the night sky made me feel less alone.”

Her throat constricts with emotion. For all her numbness that day, Clarke has learned how to ride the waves of grief since then. She lets it flow through her without resisting, a tear spilling out of her eye.

Bellamy’s gaze presses on the side of her face. Clarke concentrates on pulling in deep breaths, inhale, exhale. Wading through the loss of her dad.

Bellamy runs his hand over her hair, down her back, soothing now. Silently letting her know that he’s there. She isn’t alone.

After a few moments of just Clarke’s rattling breaths, he speaks. “Growing up, my mom told me stories about history. She was a history buff, which she passed on to me, I guess. Her favorite era was the Roman Empire, which is how she got my middle name. Augustus. After the first Roman emperor.”

Clarke’s eyes flick over to his, her sadness being gently prodded away. “Bellamy Augustus,” she repeats. “Yeah. That suits you. Nerd.”

He huffs through his nose. “Okay. Let’s hear your middle name then.”

She shrugs. “It’s nothing special. Not worthy of a _Roman emperor._ ”

“Tell me anyway,” Bellamy presses. He tugs on her hair when she stays silent. “Come on. Out with it.”

“It’s Jane,” she admits. “Happy?”

“Jane,” he says, tasting the word on his tongue. “Clarke Jane Griffin.”

“See, I told you. Simple. Boring.”

“No.” Bellamy shakes his head. “It’s classic. Like _Jane Eyre_. It suits you.” He throws the words back at her, but Clarke can tell he’s being sincere.

 _Classic_. Clarke nudges his leg with her foot. “You act like a tough jock, but you’re a soft nerd inside aren’t you, Bellamy?”

He smirks, not bothering to deny it. “Don’t tell anyone. I have a reputation to uphold.”

 

* * *

 

Clarke pushes open the door to the Dead Zone bar. She just got off work and managed to catch a bus, heading straight to meet her friends. In need of hard liquor, she didn’t bother going home to change first and shows up at the bar in her fitted blue blazer, white shirt, pencil skirt, and black pumps.

Miller playfully wolf-whistles at the sight of her approaching their table. Raven joins in and calls out, “Damn, Clarke. Step on me in those things!”

Clarke rolls her eyes at her friends’ jeering. Bellamy pours his eyes up her legs slowly, saying nothing, but his gaze seeps desire. She knows he’s thinking of when she rode him in his Jeep, wearing just a tight skirt. Her stomach flips at the hot memory.

“I. Need. Alcohol,” Clarke announces, dropping her purse.

Harper frowns in sympathy, tucked under Monty’s arm. “Bad day?”

“Just long,” she sighs. A sharp pressure aches in her neck and shoulders. She feels a headache blooming in her temples. 

Raven waves a hand at her. “Sit down. Gina will take care of you.”

Clarke listens, slumping down next to her with another sigh. “Who’s Gina?”

“The new bartender,” Raven explains. “She’s awesome. We were hanging out a bit earlier when she was on break. She kicked Murphy’s ass at pool.”

“Only because she loaded me up with beers first!” Murphy loudly protests. He turns his attention to the bar and shouts across the room. “I want a rematch!”

The girl behind the bar smirks. She’s cute, with curly brown hair and a red top that bears the Dead Zone’s logo. “You’re on. I’ll get wasted and _still_ kick your ass!”

Their table _ooh_ ’s at the challenge thrown down. They chat amongst themselves while Gina handles a customer’s tab. Jasper _finally_ asked Maya out on a date and they each give their opinion on where and how this first date should go.

“Take her to the park,” Harper exclaims, her eyes lit up with excitement. “You guys can have a picnic! It will be romantic.”

“There’s nothing romantic about bugs crawling on your junk,” Murphy drawls.

“It’s the first date,” Raven adds, taking a sip of her drink. “First dates are awkward. Take her out to dinner, that way at least you get to stuff your faces.”

Jasper rolls his eyes heavenward. “Wow! You guys are _so_ helpful. I’m a man in crisis here! I don’t want _awkward_. I want blow-your-socks-off, get a second and third date _awesome_.”

“The planetarium,” Clarke suggests. Her friends all look at her, a mix of confusion, outright disdain or curiosity. “It’s near the Polis Museum. They have a presentation you could go to, like a light show. It’s awesome.”

Murphy snorts. “He’s trying to _bang_ Maya, not _educate_ her.”

Harper shoves her hand into his face to shush him and a few of them laugh. Clarke just shrugs. She thought it made an interesting date idea.

Gina arrives at the table then, greeting them all with a smile. "Hey, guys. Can I get you anything?”

“I’ll take a Long Island Ice Tea,” Clarke says and waves. “Hi, I’m Clarke. Congrats on annihilating Murphy.”

Gina laughs while her roommate scoffs. “A Long Island Ice Tea, you got it. Anything else?” Her brown eyes skim the table and land on Bellamy. “Another Corona?”

“Yeah, thanks.” Bellamy offers her a grateful half-smile.

Gina heads back to the bar to get their orders. As soon as she leaves, Jasper announces to the table in a sing-song voice, “Gina has the hots for Bell-a-my!”

Clarke’s eyes widen. Across the table, Bellamy scoffs and drains the last of his beer. “Oh, come on.”

“ _You_ come on,” Raven says. “You know it’s true. We all had to witness her undressing you with her eyes just now.”

Bellamy puts on a cocky air, leering at her. “Can you blame her?”

“Right. I should warn her what a smug jackass you are,” Raven replies dryly.

“It _is_  in the girl code,” Harper teases with a wink.

Clarke’s fingers drum on the table as she waits for her drink, irritation prickling under her skin. She doesn’t care that Gina might be interested in Bellamy. Honestly, she doesn’t blame her. No, the thing that bugs Clarke is Bellamy _doing_ something about it.

Her mood turns stormy at the thought of Bellamy flirting with her, turning his intense eyes on Gina, touching her brown curls. She’s sick at imaging Bellamy fucking her, whispering dirty things in _Gina’s_ ear. Jealousy roars through her. Clarke has the irrational urge to claw at Bellamy’s back, mark him as _hers_.

She bets he still has scratches from the last time they had sex. There’s a purple hickey right under his jaw that _she_ sucked there. Bellamy is marked by her, but she has no real claim on him. He is free to fuck who he likes.

So is she. But that doesn’t matter. Clarke only wants Bellamy.

Gina returns shortly with their drinks. Clarke reaches for hers and greedily starts sucking down the alcohol. She wants to look away, but her eyes are drawn as Gina gives Bellamy his bottle of beer, their hands brushing. Clarke’s teeth grind together.

Her irritation hovers over her throughout the night like a gnat buzzing in her ear. Clarke tries to swat it away, but still it stays. She plasters on a smile so her friends won’t pick up on her mood, pretending to be invested in their conversations while nausea twists her stomach.

Her phone chimes in her purse. Clarke digs it out and finds a waiting text from Bellamy: _u okay?_

Her eyes flick up, meeting his across the table. His face is blank, giving nothing away, except for the hint of concern in his expressive eyes.

 _Fine,_ she sends back. _Stressed._

The corner of his mouth turns down. His reply flies in. _that’s not how u look when ur stressed. what’s wrong? u look pissed._

Annoyances flares through her. Why can’t he just leave her alone? And damn him for reading her so well. She is pissed off, but it’s not like she can tell him or anyone else here why. Clarke can’t make sense of it herself.

She _shouldn’t_ care if Bellamy sleeps with someone else. That’s their deal, no strings. He owes her nothing. But Clarke does care and that’s why she usually avoids thinking about it, wondering who he’s with the nights he’s not with her.

After a moment silently fuming, she responds: _It’s nothing. Work stuff._

A sharp exhale passes through Bellamy’s nose. He peers up from his phone to shoot her a look like she isn’t fooling him.

Miller rattles the ice in his empty glass. “Bell, I need a refill. Go ask your girlfriend for another Jack and Coke.”

“Me too,” Jasper chimes in, exchanging an unsubtle smirk with Miller. “See if you can score it on the house.”

“Should I flash her?” He bites back sarcastically. 

He grumbles about it, but at their nagging and teasing, Bellamy pushes out of the booth and heads over to the bar. Gina is wiping down the counter, but her face brightens when Bellamy leans against it on his forearms.

“Oh yeah, flashing those muscles,” Jasper jokes. “My boy’s got this covered.”

They’re all watching like spectators when Gina laughs at something Bellamy says. A sexy laugh, her head tossed back, exposing the smooth, tan column of her throat. Clarke stabs at her glass with her straw.

“Stop staring,” Harper hisses at them. “That’s weird, guys. Murphy, how’s it going at the restaurant?”

Murphy takes the bait and moves the conversation along, away from Bellamy and Gina. He bitches about the incompetent waiters on the staff that he hates with a burning passion. Raven teases about the one she finds cute, just to rile him up some more.

It takes longer than necessary for Bellamy return with a tray of drinks. He slides another Long Island Ice Tea to Clarke, which catches her by surprise. She didn’t ask for another, but she’s grateful for it. The others get their refills and Bellamy resumes his seat, taking a swig of his beer.

“Well?” Raven prods when he doesn’t say anything. “Did you get her number, Blake?”

“I did not,” Bellamy says, not sounding put out by it.

Miller shakes his head at him. “Sorry, man. I thought she’d break your dry spell.”

Clarke feels her pulse stutter, her mind latching onto his words in a vice grip, just as Harper repeats, “Dry spell?”

Bellamy keeps his eyes on the bottle, his shoulders hunched with new tension. He lets the phrase and the meaning linger in the air, not arguing or disputing it. Clarke stares at him in bafflement. That can’t mean…

“Did you run out of groupies?” Raven teases, an attempt at breaking up the sudden strain that falls over the table. Miller looks apologetic. Bellamy seems almost uncomfortable. His eyes dart up to Clarke before flitting away. 

Raven's eyes narrow as she realizes something. “It _has_ been a while since you brought someone home.”

Bellamy just shrugs. 

Her heart is pounding now, a hammer slamming against her chest. Clarke can’t move, can’t take her eyes off Bellamy’s face. She has a realization of her own. Miller’s comment clues her in. Bellamy _isn’t_ sleeping with anyone else. Just her.

It’s a shock to her system. Clarke didn’t expect him to stop hooking-up, not for her. Just because no one else is catching her interest doesn’t mean it was the same for him. Except maybe it is.

Maybe he’s just as satisfied with what they have as she is.

 _Oh, shit_. Clarke stiffens too. Miller throws Raven an affronted look on Bellamy’s behalf, which she ignores. Clarke can practically see Raven’s mind spinning, working out the sudden change in behavior. If she pieces it together with Clarke's anonymous hook-up, they're so screwed. 

Clarke levels a sharp glare at Bellamy. _Say something_ , she shouts at him in her head. _Lie. Brag about fucking some girl after your fight._

But he doesn’t. He won't lie to them. Bellamy is unusually quiet. He drinks his beer and lets the tension hang over them like he doesn't owe them an explanation. Everyone else at the table is quiet. Clarke tries to think of something to say, to change the subject, but her mind is a deep, empty well at the moment. Nothing is drawing up. 

Murphy’s voice cuts in. “Bellamy is saving himself for me. I told him we can’t be together until he cleans up his act.”

Bellamy manages a weak smirk. “For _you_ , anything.”

Their banter does the trick of bleeding out the awkward silence. Miller starts talking about a football game he and Harper watched recently. The spotlight is off of them.

Clarke aims a thankful look in Murphy’s direction. Her roommate just winks.

She waits until some time later when Murphy sneaks outside for a cigarette break. She’s a bit tipsy after two strong drinks, so Clarke carefully climbs out of the booth and follows after him to the sidewalk outside of the bar. Crisp air greets her and she grips her blazer tighter around herself. The low temperatures are a welcome change from the blistering heat. 

Clarke steps directly into a puff of smoke and coughs. 

“Don’t bitch,” Murphy says around the cigarette in his mouth. “You knew I was out here.”

Rolling her eyes, Clarke fans the smoke away. She’ll make this quick. “I was just wanted to say thanks for, you know, saving our asses in there.”

“Yeah, you needed it,” Murphy retorts, smirking in amusement. “Bellamy looked like he was short-circuiting.” He turns his blue eyes on Clarke. “What’s the deal with you two? Last I checked, Bellamy was playing the field.”

Clarke doesn’t have an answer for that. She crosses her arms over her chest and throws back, “What’s the deal with you and Raven?”

“Uh uh.” Murphy tsks at her, smirking wider. “I asked you first, Griffin. You’re risking Raven’s wrath to screw our roommate. The sex must be fire.”

“Are you _that_ curious how Bellamy is in bed, Murphy?” Clarke mocks.

“Judging by how you were screaming his name, I can take a guess,” he says flippantly.

Clarke refuses to rise to the bait he’s dangling in front of her face. Murphy is just trying to throw her off his scent so she won’t pester him about Raven. But she’s not going to fall for it.

She waits as he takes another drag, her heel tapping on the sidewalk. Murphy glares at her and Clarke tilts her chin up, letting him know she’s not leaving.

“There’s no ‘deal’ with me and Reyes,” Murphy snaps at last. “It’s a goddamn miracle we haven’t killed each other yet.”

Clarke has heard the stories from their friends about Murphy and Raven being at each other’s throats, once upon a time. From what she’s witnessed, the animosity between then now is playful and at times even sexually charged. They only pretend to dislike each other.

“Really?” she asks, disbelief tinged in her voice. “Because you look at her like no one else exists for you. Just her.”

Murphy throws down his cigarette and crushes it with his foot. He turns on her, but Clarke is ready for it, the denial and the spiked defenses. She gets it. Clarke has mile-high walls at this point built to protect herself.

“It’s a stupid crush,” he snarls. “I’ll get over it. Why don’t _you_ worry about the bartender eye-fucking your man and get off my back?”

Clarke’s lips purse. “He’s not _mine_ ,” she says, forcibly calm. “And you don’t have to get over it. You can tell her how you feel.”

A sharp snort escapes him. “What good would that do? She doesn’t want _me_. She’s Raven Reyes. She can have any guy in this fucking city. Could do a lot better than me.”

Clarke punches him in the shoulder and endures Murphy’s withering glare with one of her own. “Don’t talk about my friend like that! Pretend all you want, I know you’re a good guy, Murphy. Raven would be _lucky_ to have you.”

Murphy stares at her a minute. She doesn’t think he believes her, not for a second. But the defensive anger on his face softens into a minuscule smile.

“That bartender’s got nothing on you, Griffin,” he says lowly.

Clarke playfully flips her hair over her shoulder. “ _Obviously_.”

Murphy laughs. 

Before she slips back inside the bar, she adds, "You know, Raven wants someone with the balls to fight for her. Something to keep in mind." 

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading ❤️  
> Here's my [tumblr](http://www.kombellarke.tumblr.com)


	9. Best I Ever Had

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bellamy tucks his chin into his hand, leaning forward with renewed interest glinting in his eyes. “At least give us some details. How’s this guy in bed?”
> 
> Heat floods Clarke’s cheeks. No, they’re not doing this in front of everyone. “None of your business,” she snaps. “Perv.”
> 
> Miller snickers. “You’re blushing, Griffin.”
> 
> Bellamy’s face is alive with amusement now as she glares daggers at him, his stony mask gone. His brow goes up with faux-curiosity. “Since when are you shy?”
> 
> “She isn’t,” Raven scoffs. “This guy is—and I quote— ‘the best sex she’s ever had’.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey fam! You guys are awesome, truly. I love reading all of your comments and thoughts about this story. Thanks so much ❤️
> 
> This chapter came out better than expected, if I can toot my own horn haha. Definitely one of my favs. There are some Delinquent Family feels, which make me nostalgic for s1. Sigh. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

 

* * *

 

Fall is Clarke’s favorite season—the possibility of change in the air with the turning leaves. She loves breaking out her knee socks and adorning thick sweaters. Nostalgic for the taste of Abby’s pumpkin pie on Thanksgiving.

A new tradition she enjoys is Bellamy’s homemade, spiked hot chocolate. He makes it whenever Clarke asks.

They sip from mugs on cold nights, sometimes sitting on the rooftop, huddled in blankets against the chill. Other times, they curl up on the couch, Bellamy in one corner, reading a worn paperback and Clarke in the other, with her sketchbook in her lap. At some point, she ends up resting her head on Bellamy’s legs, sleepy and content as he combs his fingers through her hair.

Those are her favorite nights. After long hours of work, she and Bellamy steal quiet moments for themselves in between the chaos of everyday lives. And Clarke like stealing time with Bellamy most of all, feeling a rush of giddiness like sneaking a piece of chocolate before dinner.

It’s like she’s bending their own rules, reaching outside the line of “just sex” to see how far she can get.  A handful of seconds to kiss languidly before they roll away, scrambling to get dressed.

Five minutes to talk to Bellamy during her lunch break, then five again as he walks to his car leaving the gym, chatting about their days.

A whole hour on the roof, shot-gunning lazy puffs of smoke into each other’s mouths. Clarke tells Bellamy about her childhood dog, named Ziggy Stardust. The funeral her dad had for him after he died, which Wells and his dad both attended.

She learns about Bellamy’s favorite teacher. “Mr. Gibbons,” he says, the rooftop’s yellow light falling across his fond, soft grin.

Clarke pauses smoking their shared joint to listen. “He taught my Greek Mythology class in high school. Coolest guy I ever met. He gave me a copy of _The Iliad_ for graduation. I still have it on my bookshelf.”

Clarke tells him the embarrassing story of her first kiss when she locked braces with Perry Costello at age twelve. She just about _died_ from mortification when both of them had to be driven to the orthodontist by Perry’s mom. Bellamy gets a good laugh at that story.

In return, he shares how he lost his virginity at sixteen, fumbling in the back of his banged-up Toyota. “She was my Calculus tutor,” Bellamy says with a cocky flick of his eyebrows. “A senior. Total smokeshow and smart as hell.”

“God, you’re a cliché,” Clarke laughs, exhaling smoke. “Be honest: do you have a car sex fetish, Bell?”

“Who doesn’t?” Bellamy counters, unashamed.

He gestures at Clarke for another hit. She obliges, leaning close until an inch separates them, their noses grazing as she breathes out against his lips. Clarke giggles when she’s out, warm despite the chill in the air, and soaked in her high.

Bellamy inhales what she gives him and then kisses her, sending frissons of heat through her body. Her fingers are getting numb and hunger gnaws at her, but she doesn’t want to move from there, not for the world, not for anything.

They drink in the history of each other, which friends-with-benefits don’t have to know, don’t care to, but Clarke is an eager student. She wants to know everything.

Clarke thinks the weed helps loosen Bellamy’s lips, but the rest is _them_. She’s patient, doesn’t push, sharing her own stories and answers his questions honestly. The more she opens up, Bellamy does too. Slowly at first, almost shyly. He’s eager to hear about her childhood and yet surprised that Clarke wants the same from him.

She picks up that Bellamy doesn’t talk about himself much. At first, it’s all about other people. Influential figures in his life. Pike. Mr. Gibbons. His baby sister. His mom. Clarke has to nudge him, casually and carefully, to ask how he felt in those stories and then navigate around his attempts to dodge answering, deflecting.

It intrigues her more, feeling her way around Bellamy’s defenses. He has them for a reason and they’re a part of who he is. Clarke wants him to trust her the way she trusts him. To let him know it’s okay to talk, the way she gushes or rants or asks his opinion during their phone calls.

He’s fast becoming her favorite person to talk to. His sarcastic quips, his fiery rants, his pride-tinged voice when he gushes about his students at the gym and their progress. Selfishly, Clarke desires it to be the same for him.

And he does let her in. Clarke silently marvels at the way Bellamy relaxes, brown eyes lighting up with old memories, slowly unfurling like a flower toward the sun and letting her _see_ him. His past, his thoughts. She treasures every word like it’s precious gold.

After what happened with Murphy, they try to be more careful about sneaking around. Clarke feels more protective of their secret, more determined to keep it as _their_ separate thing, not the group’s business.

It isn’t always easy, but they make creative use of the empty laundry room and Bellamy’s Jeep on a few occasions. They have phone sex too and there’s something ridiculously hot about talking dirty with Bellamy while he’s in the next room, their roommates unaware of them getting off to each other.

Clarke doesn’t bring up that night at the Dead Zone. It lingers unspoken between them, the knowledge that they’re doing this exclusively. She feels the subtle shift in their arrangement, almost unnoticeable, but _there_. A string that wasn’t there before, binding them closer.

It’s that string that Clarke looks to whenever Gina gives Bellamy a smile meant just for him or drops a playful innuendo. And when a beautiful girl grinds on Bellamy at Nightblood, his hands clamped on her slender hips, while Clarke swallows down the acidic taste of jealousy. It is still _Clarke_ that ends up in Bellamy’s bed, _her_ that his mouth tastes like.

And Clarke tells herself that’s enough.

What they have works, beautifully, effortlessly. Clarke doesn’t want to risk screwing it up or pushing Bellamy away. She ignores the warning bells ringing in her ears that she’s getting too attached. The line is still there. A bit blurry, but there.

When Harper gives her a too-knowing smirk like she can see straight through to Clarke’s fluttering heart or Clarke gets a sudden urge to hold Bellamy’s hand as they walk out of the bar, she reminds herself of the rules: _Just sex, no strings, no feelings._

Maybe her feelings are spilling out, stronger than expected, but Clarke can handle them. She has no choice. Bellamy doesn’t want a relationship and she isn’t interested in the _other_ side of their easy arrangement—when someone inevitably gets hurt.  She isn’t Echo and Bellamy isn’t Finn. They know better than that.

 

* * *

 

In the first week of October, their group takes a three-day trip to Shallow Valley camping grounds. The trip had been planned a month ago so they could work it out with all of their separate schedules. Clarke has never been camping and she’s excited about the mini-trip with her favorite people in the world.

They pool their money together, rent a van for the weekend and drive up the two-hours outside of Polis to the campsite. There is a sparkling lake and a man-made fire pit, but the rest is a plot of open land and trees with red and yellow leaves.  

They each set up their tents with mixed success. Clarke ends up sharing with Harper while Monty and Jasper are together. She doesn’t complain, because she does not doubt that Jasper will be sexiled at some point so the couple will be together and Bellamy will be able to sneak into her tent.  

Some of them brave the water despite the cooler weather. Clarke gets her entertainment watching Murphy strip to his swimming trunks and dive into the water, only to shout seconds later, “Oh _fuck_. It’s cold!”

Harper, Miller, Bellamy, and Emori set up a two-on-two football game. Clarke is meant to be keeping score, but she gets distracted by sketching the setting sun bathing golden light over the lake and the trees. It’s surprisingly pretty and serene out there.

When night falls, Murphy is roped into cooking them dinner on the fire pit while the rest of them drink beer and sit around the crackling fire on wooden logs.

“There are a few hiking trails I want to check out tomorrow,” Emori announces to the group, her dark eyes glistening in the firelight. “Anybody interested?”

“Hard pass, Pocahontas,” Murphy scoffs. “I came here to lie down and do nothing for three days. Not go on an expedition.”

“We’ll go,” Harper says, smiling at Emori, her head resting on Monty’s chest.

“We will?” Monty asks her incredulously.

Harper tilts her head back to look up at her boyfriend. “Why not? It’ll be an adventure.”

Monty kisses her forehead. His words are low, playful but sincere, meant just for her. “I’d follow you anywhere.”

Murphy and Raven fake-gag in unison. Clarke’s eyes cut to Bellamy and they exchange an amused look. He’s sitting next to Emori on the log. A part of wishes they could cuddle like Harper and Monty or Miller and Bryan, but she likes moments like these too when they’re on the same wavelength.

After dinner, they break out the big bag of marshmallows for roasting. Murphy and Raven get into another argument when they’re, conveniently, sitting on the log together, pressed thigh-to-thigh.

Across the fire, Harper mouths “ _foreplay_ ” at Clarke, which is her word for Raven and Murphy’s little spats. Clarke smirks back.

Murphy is instructing her on how to cook the marshmallow just the _right_ amount. Raven rolls her eyes at his so-called expertise and smartly informs him he’s over-roasting his.

But then Murphy removes his from the fire and blows on the golden-brown edges before peeling the marshmallow off. He offers it to Raven, perfectly toasted.

“Don’t believe me?” He taunts. “Prepare to eat your words, Reyes.”  

Clarke watches as Raven eats it right off of Murphy’s fingers, her eyes locked on his. She feels the urge to look away as they smirk at each other, heat in their gazes. Foreplay indeed.

“Gross,” Jasper stage-whispers, speaking her thoughts out loud. “Get a room.”

Raven nods at Murphy, licking her lips. “Not bad.” Then she retrieves her marshmallow from the fire, completely blackened now and offers it to Murphy’s. “Your turn.”

“I’m not touching that shit,” Murphy protests. “You charred it!”

Raven’s smirk widens, her eyes glinting mischievously. She wiggles the stick in Murphy’s face and laughs. “Come on! It’s the Raven Reyes special.”

He swats the stick away and Raven cackles as it flies through the air and accidentally hits Bellamy. He shoots them both a vexed glare. The charred marshmallow falls to the ground. Murphy and Raven laugh together, leaning into each other, her hand braced on his thigh.

“Dad’s going to send you to your tents,” Harper teases, “if you don’t behave.”

“ _Separately_ ,” Bellamy adds, his look stern and Clarke almost chokes on her marshmallow.

Murphy’s nose wrinkles as he sobers up. “Don’t encourage that shit, McIntyre. He already threatened to ground me when I broke his precious mug.”

They all joke about it, but they do actually feel like their own family unit. Dysfunctional at times, mismatched pieces that somehow fit together, but the affection between them is real. Clarke never thought she could find a second family, after losing Wells. Her own got smaller, broken, and then the universe blessed her with this.

She has no idea what she’s done to deserve it. But, as Clarke glances around the fire at the familiar faces she loves, maybe it isn’t about _deserving_ it. Maybe the universe just brings people together that need it most.

It certainly feels like there’s a trace of autumn magic in the air that night. The stars are stunningly bright, the fireflies dancing in lazy circles, everything tinged with gold from the fire and scented and _alive_.

Clarke’s senses grow fuzzy around the edges while drinking more beer, her friends’ voices both muted and nestled close. At some point, Bryan breaks out his guitar and plucks a melody for them on the strings. They all get progressively drunk and uninhibited with the freedom of the woods around them, all under the big, glowing orb of the moon.

Murphy pulls Raven to her feet and they dance a jaunty waltz, barefoot in the grass, her ponytail spinning behind her. Raven’s laugh is bright and Murphy’s blue eyes glimmer in the dark, his grin warm and pleased as he twirls her around.

Bellamy goes off on a tangent, tending to loudly rant when he’s drunk and his tongue is loosened. Clarke doesn’t follow all of it coherently, something about the gladiator matches of the Roman Republic. But she listens, her hands tucked under her head and eyelids heavy, enraptured by the passionate intensity of his voice and his sweeping hand gestures.

Sitting on the log with his back almost regally straight, his brown eyes blazing and tone commanding attention, Bellamy could be an emperor himself, lost in time.

That night time moves in stutters. At some point, Clarke pushes herself, a bit clumsily, to her feet with the support of Miller’s strong shoulder. She dances around the campfire with Emori and Harper, their faces streaked with flickering gold and their friends clapping along.

Then her foot catches on a wooden log and arms catch Clarke’s waist before she falls on her face. Bellamy pulls her against his chest and she can feel the deep rumble of his laugh. “Easy, clumsy-feet,” he ribs.

She settles between Bellamy’s legs on the log, his chest warm and solid when she nuzzles her cheek there. His arms stay wrapped around her and no one seems to notice. Or more likely, Clarke is too drunk to tell. They all are.

Miller starts one of his ghost stories, mixing up many of the details. The others throw in their own comments until it somehow morphs into a discussion about the existence of Bigfoot and other conspiracy theories, which Monty has a lot to say about.

Clarke drifts off on Bellamy’s chest. She dreams that she’s lying out in the middle of the lake, feeling the ripples of water rocking underneath her. Her eyes crack open in between the campfire and lying down in her tent and she catches a whiff of Bellamy’s earthy scent before sleep takes her again.

In the middle of the night, she’s woken up by her bladder. Half-asleep, Clarke slips out of her tent and uses her phone’s flashlight to guide her in the dark. When she comes back from watering a bush, whispering voices catch her attention.

Clarke squints through the shadows of their campsite and vaguely makes out two figures sitting by the lake. Their heads are bent together, their voices low and intimate. She can’t hear what they’re saying, but the wind carries Murphy’s snort and the unmistakable sound of Raven’s laugh.

Clarke smirks to herself as she ducks back into her tent.

 

* * *

 

The next morning is quiet and slow, gray watery light filtering through the trees as they drag themselves up. Yawning over breakfast of cooked eggs, bacon and toast. Eventually, Emori, Monty and Harper slip away for their hiking trip. The rest of them laze about their campsite.

After breakfast, Murphy and Jasper kick around the soccer ball they brought with them. Clarke lounges in the grass with the others, stretched out on a blanket. Raven is expertly shuffling cards for a game of poker, wearing the crown of daisies that Clarke wove together for her.

She plucks some purple violets and makes one for Bellamy too. He lets her place the crown on his head and wears it proudly. At his preening, Murphy demands to know where his flower crown is.

“Right here,” Clarke says and flips him off.

Bellamy throws his head back to laugh and Murphy adopts a mock-wounded expression. She feels bad anyway and makes him a chain of flowers to wear around his neck.

Clarke lies on her back, gazing up at the clouds as they wait for the cards to be dealt. Everything feels languid and peaceful, like gliding through molasses, no demand to be anywhere else. Her mind is perfectly blank, her heartbeat slow in her ears.

Then Raven pokes her cheek. “What’s going on with your guy?”

“Hmm?” Clarke doesn’t turn her head. One of the clouds looks like a horse.

“The yoga guy,” she adds, keeps poking with her finger until Clarke glances at her. Raven’s eyebrows wiggle suggestively. “Still boinking each other’s brains out?”

 _Shit_. Clarke stiffens with the change in the air. A current of tension stirs between her and Bellamy. His body tenses up, shifting away from her so her foot is no longer touching his knee. Slight, but just enough for her to notice, feel its sting.

She peeks at him and finds Bellamy’s jaw ticking. He glares down at the cards clenched in his hand, his knuckles turned white.

Miller snorts. “What yoga guy?”

Her pulse is sprinting now. This is bad. She knows what Bellamy is thinking and it’s not true, not at all. Clarke tries to catch his eye, but he won’t just _look_ at her, damn it.

“This mystery guy that Clarke’s been seeing for _months_ ,” Raven explains. “But she won’t tell us anything. Not even his name.”

Clarke stretches out her leg and subtly nudges Bellamy with a sock-clad foot. It’s _him_. She hasn’t slept with anyone else since they started. He has to know that.

“And Raven won’t take the hint,” Clarke says, going for exasperated. “I told you, it’s a low-key thing. I’m not subjecting him to you nosy assholes.”

“Ouch,” Miller says dryly, smirking at her. “We can behave ourselves, Clarke.”

Finally, Bellamy exhales and peers at her from under his lashes. The glance is heavy, filled with too many things to unload right then. The corner of his mouth curls up and relief is sweet as it rushes through Clarke’s lungs. They’re okay.

Bellamy tucks his chin into his hand, leaning forward with renewed interest glinting in his eyes. “At least give us some details. How’s this guy in bed?”

Heat floods Clarke’s cheeks. No, they’re _not_ doing this in front of everyone. “None of your business,” she snaps. “Perv.”

Miller snickers. “You’re blushing, Griffin.”

Bellamy’s face is alive with amusement now as she glares daggers at him, his stony mask gone. His brow goes up with faux-curiosity. “Since when are you shy?”

“She isn’t,” Raven scoffs. “This guy is—and I quote— ‘the best sex she’s ever had’.”

Clarke is going to _strangle_ her in her tent tonight. Bellamy is next. Miller, Bryan, and Jasper all cackle in delight while Bellamy is grinning widely like the cat that got the canary.

Ignoring how her face is burning, Clarke sits up and reaches for her pile of cards. “Are we gonna play or what, bitches?”

Thankfully, they drop it, sensing her embarrassment. Clarke doesn’t care about bragging about good sex, but it’s Bellamy knowing she’s talked about him to the girls that unnerve her. Clarke tried to keep her mouth shut, the details private. But after a while, she caved, babbling to Raven and Harper during their brunch dates about this “amazing” guy.

During the round of poker, Bellamy is insufferable and smug, chuckling under his breath. She has to whack him with her cards several times. Neither of them is fully focused on the game and it’s no surprise when Raven kicks all of their sorry asses.

They spend the day lazing about, free of stress and obligations for once, enjoying each other’s company, giving shit and taking it. Clarke imagines summer camp is something like this, separated from the real world, existing in a bubble of languid, long days outdoors.

In the afternoon, they go canoeing on the lake. Murphy and Bellamy tussle like big, dumb puppies and end up capsizing. They splash into the water and the whole campsite must hear Bellamy’s loud, exasperated, “Damn it, Murphy!”

When he resurfaces, Murphy lets out a wicked laugh and Bellamy drags him under again. Clarke yells at them to get their asses back in the canoe before they freeze. She should have seen it coming when Murphy shakes out his hair and grins, “Sorry, _Mom_.”

Jasper makes a joke about her “yoga-guy” not being here to relax her. Bellamy winks.

 

* * *

 

She doesn’t remember falling asleep that night. Her eyes droop, tired from the day of canoeing and the games they played around the fire that night, and then she’s out. A strange noise tugs her out of sleep. Clarke blinks into the darkness of her tent. It takes a few hazy seconds for her to recognize the sound of the zipper being pulled down.

Her heart drops. In her half-asleep state, alarm prickles down her spine until she narrows down the possibilities. Not an axe-murderer sneaking into her tent. Just Harper coming back from the bathroom. Or Bellamy sneaking in.

Clarke sits up slowly. Her eyes adjust to the darkness and find the tent empty. A glance at her phone tells her it’s 2 am. She has a few missed texts from Bellamy.

_are u awake?_

_harper’s in monty’s tent. jasper’s in ours now._

_i’m coming to urs. don’t freak out._

Bellamy sticks in his head in the open flap and whispers, “Clarke?”

She bites her lip, not wanting to smile at him at the moment. Her voice rings out teasingly anyway. “You’re a dork, Augustus. Get in here.”

His smile glints in the fuzzy blackness. Despite her best efforts, a rush of excitement sweeps through her, from her head down to her toes. She’s always happy to see Bellamy.

“Jasper snores like a truck driver,” he tells her, zipping up the tent once he crawls through. “Between that and Murphy talking in his sleep, I couldn’t hear myself think.”

“Had to break it to you, Bell,” Clarke says, “But your snoring is probably worse.”

Immediately, he scoffs. “I _don’t_ snore.”

“We share a wall,” Clarke retorts wryly. “You absolutely _do_ snore.”

His forehead wrinkles, lips forming a frown as he fails to come up with an argument for that and Clarke laughs in quiet victory.

Instead, Bellamy crawls over and kisses her, sliding an arm around her waist. Goosebumps rise on her skin. Clarke licks eagerly into his mouth, moaning at the sweet taste of him on her tongue. Butterflies stir up a frenzy in her belly.  

Bellamy lays her back on the cushion of the sleeping bag, fitting himself between Clarke’s parted legs. His fingers slip under her sweater and find the soft skin of her waist, her lower back. Clarke dissolves under his fierce kisses and is revived by the electricity sparking in her veins.

Her flannel pajama pants are tugged off. Bellamy’s hands skim over her bare thighs, wrapping her leg around his hip. She feels the hard press of his cock between them. Clarke forces herself to break the kiss before she gets swept away.

Bellamy ducks his head, going to kiss her neck, but she nudges him off. He pulls back, smirking. “You gonna tease me, babe?”

His playful tone makes her stomach flutter. She fights to hold on to her irritation, but it’s skipping out of her reach. “I _should_ ,” Clarke snaps. “You were obnoxious today.”

Bellamy laughs lowly, his fingers trailing over the outside of her thigh. “How can I not be?” He grins at her, still smug. “ _The best sex you’ve ever had_.”

Clarke rolls her eyes. “Don’t get too excited. It’s not a long list.”

He kisses under her ear, sucking softly until she moans. “You don’t have to be embarrassed,” he murmurs. “You’re the best I’ve had too, Clarke.”

She snorts in disbelief. “Shut up. Roma was a fucking gymnast. And I know about your threesome with the sorority girls—”

Bellamy kisses her, quiets her with the slick pass of his tongue and her argument falls out of her head. “Naked truth,” he continues, both of them breathless. His brown eyes hold on hers, glisten with sincerity. “I didn’t ask for Gina’s number not because I don’t find her attractive.”

A scowl twists her lips. Not where she thought this was going. “Your dirty talk game is slipping,” Clarke grumbles, “if you think I want to hear about another girl you want to—”

“No,” he snorts. “No, Clarke, listen. It doesn’t matter who it is. I didn’t _care_. We what we have is so good, I’m not interested in sleeping with somebody else. Do you understand? You…” Bellamy pauses to laugh at himself, pushing his fingers through his hair. “You’ve set the bar too high. I can’t even _think_ about other girls. There’s no room in my head. There’s just _you_.”

Her jaw drops. Clarke can’t come up with a response to that. His words stun her. She believes him, of course. Bellamy wouldn’t lie to her. He means it, that _she_ is somehow enough for him. More than enough. She fills his head the same way Clarke can’t get him off her mind.

Desire pulses in her blood, stops her lungs, floods between her legs. Clarke reaches out to tear Bellamy’s Henley shirt off, needing to get her hands back on him. They kiss, hot and a bit desperate, in between stripping out of their clothes as fast as possible. The tent still carries the biting chill outside, so they curl themselves around each other under her wool blanket.

It feels so good, the close press of Bellamy’s warm skin against hers. His hand dips between her thighs and runs the pad of his fingers through her folds, feeling her wetness for him. Bellamy coats his fingers in it before he finds her clit, swollen and throbbing.

His thumb flicks the hardened nub, listening to her moans. He nibbles on the shell of her ear as he pleasures her. “I love how you moan for me,” he whispers. “You hold nothing back and it’s so sexy, Clarke.”

What he doesn’t know is how comfortable Bellamy makes her feel, un-self-conscious of her noises. She can let go with him.

“I—I love,” Clarke gasps, “how you talk, Bell.”

He chuckles, his breath warm on her neck. “I know you do.” His thumb taps on her clit, alternating between firm strokes and light circles, building her pleasure at his pace. “What do you want, Princess? Do you want me to finger-fuck your cunt?”

Clarke moans, parting her thighs wider for him. “Yes, yes! _Please_.”

He pushes his middle and index finger in, easy as anything, the sounds slick as he rubs at her inner walls. Clarke grabs at the pillow under her for something to hold onto. It takes him seconds to find the right angle and she has to bite down hard on her lip as Bellamy curls his fingers up, working her G-spot.

Bellamy bends his head to lick at her peaked nipples while he finger-fucks her. “These gorgeous tits,” he murmurs against her and then switches, briefly, to suck on her bottom lip. “Your pretty mouth.” His nose skims her neck, inhaling her. “God, you smell amazing. _You’re_ amazing.”

Clarke can only whimper as her orgasm rushes toward her, quick is lightning. She writhes from Bellamy’s praises and the way he plays her body like a skilled musician. It’s the truth: no one can make her come like he can. He’s learned every tick, every hitch of her voice, when she’s close, how far he can push her body until they slam up against her limits.

His free hand squeezes her throat, just enough to stutter her breath and she’s _done_.

Bellamy’s mouth covers hers as she comes, swallowing her cries. Pressing into her tingling clit until it becomes too much and he backs off before she even starts to twitch.

Her climax recedes, leaving Clarke trembling. She kisses him back when she floats down, toying with his soft curls. “You’re so good to me.”

Bellamy grins against her mouth. “I aim to please.”

When her limbs stop feeling like jelly, Clarke pushes at his chest and rolls him onto his back. He lets her, his brows raising as he waits for her next move. She drops down between his legs and anchors her hand around his cock to lick at the salty tip of him.

Bellamy lets out a sigh, his head falling back on the pillow. A smile plays on his lips. “Helping yourself to my cock, huh?”

Her tongue traces over the thick head. Her eyes lift to meet his half-lidded gaze, holding it as Clarke takes the tip into her mouth and sucks hard. Pleasure slackens his expression. She pulls off to say, “I want to be good to you too, Bell.”

Bellamy’s low grunts and swears are the sexiest symphony as Clarke blows him. Her jaw aching sweetly, his fingers’ tight, guiding grip in her hair, his dick twitching on her tongue, all of it is so fucking hot. Clarke’s cunt is dripping again.

She swallows the load that Bellamy releases and slips him out of her mouth. Pride glows behind her ribs at the sight of him post-orgasm. The faint flush under his brown, freckled skin, his chest heaving from chasing his breath, and the thoroughly blissed-out look on his gorgeous face. _She_ did that.

He brushes a loose strand of her hair back as Clarke leans over him, gives her a content smile, dimples flashing. “Damn, that was good.”

They make out lazily, Clarke straddling his waist, trading deep and wet kisses until she feels him grow hard under her again. Then, Bellamy still teases her and pinches at the tight peaks of her nipples. Clarke bites at his throat in return, leaving behind a trail of bruises.

“How am I going to explain that?” He asks, lifting a brow at her.

Clarke shrugs, smirking as she presses her finger into the reddening hickey. “You’ll think of something.”

Bellamy rolls Clarke onto her side to fuck her, pushing in in one fluid motion. Words fail her as she cries out, loving the slight ache of his thick length burying inside her, as deep as he can go.

Bellamy kisses the trail between her breasts, nips lightly at her nipple. “Yeah, you can take me, babe,” he tells her. “That’s it.”

“Oh, Bell,” she gasps. Her teeth grit as he pulls back and thrusts into her again, filling her up. “Oh, that’s so good.”

Her hands clasp his neck, his shoulders, as they move together, panting into the same air. His fingers dig into her thigh where he has her leg hitched around his waist. Their rocking bodies become sticky with sweat.

Bellamy’s hips grind into her slowly, unhurriedly, like they have all the time in the world. Threads her hair around his fingers so he can slide his lips across the line of her jaw, down her neck, licking the salt off her skin.

They find the perfect angle as he’s moving deep inside her. Clarke’s eyelids flutter, pleasured moans spilling out of her. Then Bellamy cups her cheek, murmurs, “Look at me.”

His rough voice is a command she can’t ignore. Doesn’t want to. Her eyes snap open. She’d do anything to keep Bellamy like this, hot stare boring into her eyes like the earth could go up in flames and he wouldn’t care, wouldn’t stop. No one else matters. It’s just _them_.

The intensity could scare her if she wasn’t so consumed with it. Clarke feels the same way. The thought of being parted from him is unbearable. She is complete with him inside her, stretched and full and wonderfully _right_.

“Bellamy,” Clarke pants into his ear, just his name. “ _Bellamy_.”

He growls, pulling her in tighter against him. They kiss, a hot slide of lips and brushing tongues, until she can’t take it anymore. The swell of heat in her core, begging to be ignited and set free. The friction on her clit is delicious, but she needs more.

Her eyes meet his again, dilated and glazed from arousal, but he understands. He fits his hand between their fused hips, rubs at her clit with two insistent fingers while they keep grinding at a steady pace.

Clarke starts pulsing around his cock, locking her body around him. The pleasure is intense, everywhere, spurred on by Bellamy’s molten voice dripping into her ear. “Come for me, sweetheart. Let me feel you. Come on, Clarke.”

Her orgasm rocks through her. Bellamy kisses her again to smother her sounds and Clarke shakes and shakes, her nails digging into his shoulder blades. Her toes curl up and she feels like she could burst from how good it is.

“That’s gorgeous,” he murmurs, slightly strained. His breath catches as her cunt clenches rhythmically, dragging him over the edge with her. “Fuck, you feel incredible.”

Bellamy pulls out quickly and at that moment, tears prick her eyes at the loss of him. His hand jerks his cock in frantic pumps, groaning, the muscles in his biceps bulging. He spills himself over his fist, some come splattering onto her stomach.

He’s beautiful. Clarke sketches the image of him in her mind like this, doesn’t want to forget it. It hurts less as she admires him and doesn’t let herself focus on the part of her mourning that it’s over.

She turns her face away, wiping away a tear as Bellamy cleans himself up. He scrubs off the mess on her stomach as well. Clarke chides herself to get it together. She’s being over-emotional.

“Clarke.”

Bellamy stares at her, concern burning on the side of her face. He touches her hip gently. “What’s wrong?”

She turns her head, forces a small smile. “Nothing. That was perfect.”   

His worried frown doesn’t move. Bellamy, damn him, isn’t easily fooled. “Something is.” His eyes drop to her neck, turning agonized. “Did I hurt you? Was it too—”

“No!” Clarke’s hand dart out to his chest to stop him. “No,” she repeats firmly. “I _loved_ that. You didn’t hurt me, Bell.”

She pushes herself up to kiss the frown off his lips. She can’t have him thinking he did anything wrong. Clarke is the mess, not him. Her feelings are leaking out and they need to be stuffed back into the clearly labeled Fuck Buddy box.

Bellamy lets them make-out for a little while. Just as Clarke starts to sink into her afterglow, comforted by his closeness and deep kisses, he pulls back. “Nice try. Tell me what’s wrong.”

Clarke huffs. “You stopped kissing me, for one.”

He shakes his head, a stubborn set to his jaw. “I _know_ you, Clarke. You’re upset about something.”

She’s trying so hard not to be and wishes he would just leave it. Clarke pushes her lips up into a cheeky smirk. “Haven’t you ever made a girl cry from a good orgasm?”

Bellamy doesn’t take the bait. Frustration wrinkles his forehead, drawing his brows down over his eyes. “I thought we didn’t lie to each other. You can talk to me. You know that.”

Clarke lowers her eyes, guilt gnawing its way through her. Her fingers trace absent patterns on Bellamy’s chest as she thinks of how to get out of this conversation without lying to him. But she can’t tell him the whole truth either.  

_You make me ridiculously happy. All I want to do is be with you. And it hurts when you leave._

“Stay.”

The word bursts from her lips. She feels Bellamy go still, waiting. Clarke’s palm flattens against his chest like she can keep him here. But she knows it’s his choice and she would never force Bellamy to cross a line of intimacy he isn’t comfortable with.

Clarke clears her throat, speaks softer. “Can you stay a little longer?”

Silence answers her. Then Bellamy’s fingers find her chin, gently tipping her head back so he can look at her. Her pulse picks up. His dark eyes study hers like he’s peering into her soul for answers. Clarke lets him look, even if his intense gaze is a lot to bear.

“ _You have to give a little, to gain something_.”

She hasn’t forgotten Harper’s wise words. Clarke feels vulnerable, naked in a way that has nothing to with her bare body. She itches to take it back, throw the wall back up before Bellamy can reject her. But Clarke pushes through it.

“Is that what you want?”

“Yes,” Clarke admits. “I—I want you to stay. All night.”

Surprise flashes in his eyes. “What if Harper comes back? Or someone comes looking for me?”

Her jaw sets, growing more solid with conviction. “I don’t care about them.”

Because right now she doesn’t. Clarke wants him _here_ , screw everybody else.

Bellamy gives a smile she hasn’t seen before. She knows his sleepy, half-awake smile early in the morning before his caffeine dose wakes him up, the lazy, post-sex grin, the prideful beam that flashes all his teeth and reaches his eyes when one of his students impress him, the playful quirk of his mouth when he’s teasing his friends or being sarcastic.

This one is soft, closed-lip, quietly pleased with her response. “Okay.”

He lays down beside her, a familiar warmth tucked around her body. Clarke ducks her head to hide her stupid, giddy grin while he rubs her back. Her sadness is sucked away like water disappearing down the drain.

They soak in the comfortable quiet, Bellamy occasionally pressing kisses to her shoulder. Bellamy’s scent hits her whenever she inhales and Clarke touches that peace again, her private nirvana. The kind that only finds her when she’s alone with Bellamy.

He’s there when she falls asleep. Stays until dawn when light breaks and slips away, back to his tent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follow me on [tumblr](http://www.kombellarke.tumblr.com) ❤️


	10. The Cockroach and The Raven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, fam. I don't know about y'all, but I found the finale to be...underwhelming. Let's leave it at that. At least we got a beautiful sunset moment with Bellarke. Poetic cinema. 
> 
> I _might_ be writing a sort of fix-it fic for s6, just some missing conversation I wished had happened and of course with canon Bellarke. We'll see when this story wraps up first ;-) 
> 
> Your comments are so lovely and make every chapter worth writing. Love you guys ❤️
> 
> Enjoy!

 

* * *

 

“How kind you _decided_ to grace us with your presence today,” Her boss, Nia, greets her when Clarke walks in Tuesday morning, looking down her nose disapprovingly.

The group drove back from their camping trip the day before. It was the one paid day-off that she has taken since her father’s funeral four months ago.

 _One day I’ll quit,_ Clarke reassures herself, gritting her teeth. But if she wants Nia’s letter of recommendation for her next job, she can’t tell her boss to fuck off. No matter how tempting it is.

“Good morning,” Clarke says coolly, keeping her temper under control. “What can I do?”

“We have a meeting with Eligius at ten,” Nia retorts. “Conference room C. I expect the designs they asked for will be done by then.”

She isn’t asking. Her sharp glare suggests that the designs should already be set up in the conference room. Clarke tilts her chin up. She hasn’t lasted at this job because she lets Nia intimidate her that easily.

“I placed them on your desk on Friday before I left,” Clarke explains, “to be reviewed.”

Her boss sighs deeply. “Don’t waste my time with your excuses, Miss Griffin. I saw no such designs on my desk.”

Behind Nia’s head, Clarke spots Ontari gawking at them from the receptionist desk, listening in. By the mischievous smirk she’s poorly concealing, Clarke understands how the Eligius file mysteriously disappeared from Nia’s desk before she could see it. Typical.

“I’ll get them now,” Clarke says and quickly winds around her boss to head to her office.

When the people from Eligius arrive at ten am sharp, Clarke is asked to sit in on the meeting. She suspects Nia is doing it as a punishment. Normally, her boss likes her employees’ work to be seen and she gets the credit without their presence needed.

If the designs are shoddy and Eligius hates them, which Nia thinks they will without her reviewing the file first, Clarke gets thrown under the bus.

The conference room is the coldest space in the whole office floor, both literally and figuratively. The air is almost frigid enough to see their breath and the atmosphere is harsh, unwelcoming, with its frosted glass windows, black carpet and long granite table.

“ _Love_ the décor,” is the first thing out of Charmaine Diyoza’s mouth. Her expression is aloof, but there’s a tinge of mockery in her voice that makes Roan outright snort.

The meeting is run by the formidable woman. Diyoza takes no shit and Clarke can’t help but admire her attitude—a breath of fresh air among the soulless drones and cutthroat backstabbers that occupy their office.

Her colleague, McCreary, is crude and opinionated and Clarke doesn’t care for the way he openly leers at Ontari’s ass when she pours them glasses of water.

Thankfully, Diyoza seems to be calling the shots. She turns a deaf ear to McCreary’s criticism and surveys Clarke’s work with keen blue eyes. In her chair, Clarke squirms just a bit. She isn’t used to being in the room while their clients critique her designs.

The conference room is holding its breath until, finally, Diyoza looks up and pins Clarke with her piercing stare. “You’re the illustrator on this assignment?”

She sits up straight. “Yes.”

Diyoza nods. Her expression gives nothing away. “We’ve met with three other illustrators this month,” she says. “Yours is the only design that matches what we had in mind _without_ putting me to sleep.”

Clarke blinks at her. “So you liked them?”

A small smirk forms on Diyoza’s mouth. “Kid, these are fucking fantastic.”

A surprised laugh escapes Clarke. Happiness bubbles in her chest. This is one of the first projects that Nia has put her individually in charge of. She has spent so many late nights trying to get it right. She can’t believe Diyoza didn’t cast it aside as amateur crap.

Diyoza turns her stare on Nia and folds her hands together on the table. “Now, let’s talk business.”

Clarke takes this as her cue to leave. As she passes by his chair, Roan sticks out his hand to give her a low-five. Joyfully, she leaves him to handling the business talk with the other hungry wolves.

The meeting wraps up just before lunch. Clarke eats at her desk again, having to catch up on the work she’s already fallen behind on. Surprisingly, Nia’s mood is just as bitchy as ever and she doesn’t understand why until Roan slips in to her office.

“Bad news,” he says, but there’s an amused glint in his eye.

Clarke’s nose wrinkles. “Ugh. What?”

“ _You_ get to be my date for the charity dinner next weekend.”

His words untangle to make sense in her mind and then she’s scowling. “Of course. Eligius likes my design and your mother _punishes_ me by sending me to that stupid dinner.”

“Close,” Roan says, leaning his forearms on the chair parked in front of her desk. “That broad, Diyoza, isn’t sold on my mother’s offer. They didn’t close today, but she likes _you_. So you’re going to woo her and convince her to work with us.”

“Lucky me,” Clarke mutters.

“Good news is, I’m sure you look hot in a black cocktail dress,” Roan adds.

“How is that good news for me?” She demands.

“It’s not.” Roan grins, backing up towards her door. “I meant for _me_.”

 

* * *

 

The following night Clarke is leaving Azgeda, the sky already painted a midnight blue outside. Her stomach rumbles as she calls Bellamy and speaks as soon as he picks up. “I’m going to eat my weight in Kung Po chicken. I’m _serious_. Can you order from that place on Olympic?”

Bellamy answers her, gruff and congested. “Not home. Get whatever you want.”

Clarke halts on the sidewalk. “You’re still at work?”

“Yep.” He’s pissed at something, his words clipped. “One of the students got injured. The paramedics are here checking him out. His parents showed up. Can’t remember the kid’s birthday, but they’re here to scream about a fucking lawsuit.” 

She frowns. “Bell, you sound awful. You should be home. Resting.”

He’s had a head cold for days, ever since they got back from Shallow Valley and he seems to be getting worse instead of better. Clarke heard him coughing a lung up all night. Being Bellamy, he insisted he was fine and ignored her suggestion to take the day off work.

“It’s nothing,” he grumbles. “Besides, I can’t leave. It’s a clusterfuck here.”

“I’m sure they can handle—”

She hears a shrill, feminine voice in the background. “Look, I gotta go,” Bellamy cuts her off before the line clicks.

Clarke lingers in front of Azgeda’s building, grimacing to herself at the thought of Bellamy running himself ragged. He’s been on his feet all day instead of resting. He looked like death warmed over when she saw him that morning, glassy-eyed and throat sore. Knowing him, Bellamy will stay at the gym all night until the mess is sorted out, his health be damned.

She pulls up the Uber app on her phone. While waiting for the car to arrive, Clarke researches where she can find hot soup in the area and gives the driver the instructions when she climbs in.

It’s going to be like pulling teeth, she knows. Bellamy isn’t going to come easy, but she won’t give him a choice. The car pulls up in front of Grounders gym twenty minutes later, a tub of chicken noodle soup in her lap. Clarke asks the driver to wait a few minutes and promises she’ll be back.

Thankfully, there are no paramedics to be found outside or inside the gym. The space is mostly empty, with only a small group huddled around the back office by the lockers.

Clarke spots Bellamy rubbing his temples, his tight expression conveying his frustration. His nose is bright red and he looks ready to drop dead, but is holding himself up through force of will.

There’s a woman dressed in a cashmere sweater dress, shrieking at one of the trainers, and a man beside her in a suit, looking similarly put out. The kid, about thirteen, is sitting on a bench. He’s got an ice pack pressed to his head, but overall he looks to be doing better than Bellamy, cringing at his mother’s tirade.

Clarke squares her shoulders and marches up to Bellamy. Her heels give her entrance away. His head whips up and he finds her before the others notice, his mouth pulling into a deep grimace.

“Clarke, what the hell are you doing here?”

She winces. His voice isn’t more than a croak. “Getting you home. You look like you’re about to pass out. What good are you doing here?”

Bellamy shakes his head, turning his exasperated glare on her. “Coming from the girl that doesn’t take lunch breaks,” he retorts. “I can’t just leave. They need me here. You, of all people, should understand that.”

“I do,” Clarke admits. “But have to take care of yourself, Bell. You wouldn’t let your students come in this sick, would you?”

“She’s right.” One of the trainers, Zoe Monroe, cuts in. The pissed off mother doesn’t like being interrupted, but Monroe ignores her at the moment. “Go home, Blake.”

Clarke smiles in victory, while Bellamy rolls his eyes to the ceiling. “Don’t encourage her,” he rasps. “She already thinks she’s the boss of me.”

“Somebody has to be,” Clarke replies wryly.

With the confirmation that his co-workers have the situation under control, she manages to cajole Bellamy out of the gym and into the waiting Uber outside. Of course, he bitches the whole ride to the apartment that he doesn’t need her to come rescue him and he can take care of his damn self.

Murphy greets them when they walk in, seated on the green couch. “You look like shit, man,” he tells Bellamy.

“You wound me,” Bellamy bites back before dissolving into a coughing fit.

“No banter.” Clarke hustles him toward the stairs. “Get into bed. I’ll bring you the soup. Come on.”

By some miracle, he listens. Clarke heads to the kitchen to prepare a bowl of chicken noodle soup. She also makes him hot tea with honey, which is her go-to when she’s feeling under the weather.

“Looks who’s the housewife now,” Murphy snickers as she passes by.

If her hands weren’t full, she’d give him the finger. Clarke just ignores him as she carefully climbs the stairs and enters Bellamy’s room. He’s sitting in bed, tucked under a thick blanket and glaring sullenly like the soup she brings in personally offends him.

It isn’t just his nose that is red now. There are two high points of color on his cheeks. Clarke frowns and presses her hand to his forehead to feel his temperature.

“Are you going to spoon-feed me next, Nurse Clarke?” Bellamy taunts weakly. “I’m not a goddamn invalid. I can get my own dinner and I’m not even hungry.”

“No,” Clarke snaps. “What you are is the worst patient _ever_.” She takes her head off his forehead. “Christ, Bellamy, you’re burning up. Get out of that blanket.”

He shakes his head. “I’m fucking freezing.”

Clarke worries about his fever, but she can see Bellamy tremoring with shivers under the blanket, despite his best efforts to act unaffected. She leaves him drinking the tea and goes to search for the electric thermometer she has stored in the medicine cabinet.

Bellamy’s teeth are audibly chattering when she returns to his room. He’s huddled under the blanket on his side, still fully clothed and apparently cold. Clarke’s concern for him spikes. “Bell, let me take your temperature really quick.”

His scratchy voice comes out muffled. “I just to sweat it out and sleep. I’ll be fine.”

“Let me check your temperature,” she urges. “And then I’ll let you sleep. You definitely need it.”

Bellamy groans, pushing himself up with exaggerated reluctance. Even sick, he acts like a drama queen. “You’re such a pain in the ass, you know that?”

Tuning out his grumbling, she instructs him to open his mouth and sets the thermometer under his tongue. Bellamy trembles with chills all the while, despite the sweat glistening on his forehead. Sure enough, he has a fever at 101 degrees.

Clarke sighs as Bellamy burrows himself beneath the covers. She shuts off the light and decides to let him be, for now. His fever might break on its own and his body needs rest more than anything.

She, Raven and Murphy have take-out for dinner downstairs and play a few rounds of cards, Bullshit and poker. Clarke endures more of Murphy’s teasing about her playing nurse to Bellamy.

Raven, on the other hand, makes it known that she finds Clarke’s fussing ridiculous. “He’s a grown man, Clarke. He can handle the sniffles without you babying him.”

Murphy laughs as Clarke mulishly points out, “He has a fever. Probably from falling into that freezing lake.” She throws a dark glare in Murphy’s direction and adds, “It could be serious.”  

Her roommates help distract Clarke from dragging Bellamy to a doctor immediately. She can’t seem to help the anxiety prickling her nerves, making her leg jiggle under the coffee table.

Fevers aren’t something to take lightly and it’s _Bellamy_. He’s a dumbass that is too stubborn to take care of himself when he’s sick and she hates the thought of him getting worse while she just _lets_ him. Whatever. She worries.

After a few hours, Clarke slips back into his room and regretfully wakes him from sleep to check his temperature. His body feels like its own furnace, blazing heat. He doesn’t fight her or even complain this time, his gaze unfocused.

His temperature comes back higher. 102 degrees.

“Shit,” Clarke swears to herself. She wades through her concern and it comes back to her, how her mom lowered her fevers when she was young. Ice baths. They don’t have a tub, but there are ice packs in the freezer.

He’s docile when Clarke gets him out of his clothes, which worries her more. She actually _prefers_ Bellamy’s crankiness, being put out by someone fussing over him, to this lethargy and the feverish haze in his eyes.

She leaves him a moment to retrieve ice packs from the kitchen. Bellamy is just lying there on the bed, listless and unusually quiet as he blinks up at her. He’s in his boxers, but doesn’t seem to notice the hot or the cold then.

“What are you doing?” He asks, sluggish, the words running together.

Clarke swallows down her concern, keeps her voice even. “We have to break your fever, Bell. This is going to be cold, okay?”

She places the first ice pack on his chest, the second on his stomach. Bellamy sighs. “That feels nice.”

Another goes tucked under his neck. Bellamy watches her as she places them around his body, tracking her movements, his eyes feverishly bright. She uses all of the packs they have and steps back when she’s done.

Bellamy reaches out, his fingers weakly circling her wrist. “Don’t go.”

She catches his fever, feeling the heat melt her inside with tenderness. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Clarke slides in beside him on the bed. Bellamy’s head turns slowly on the pillow to look at her as she settles in, pulling the blanket up around her body. A pucker appears between his brows and he blinks at her in the dark, growing confused.

“It’s okay,” she murmurs. “You’re okay, Bell.”

“What are you doing here?”

A frown turns down her mouth. He’s out of it. “You have a fever,” she explains patiently. “Do you want me to go?”

“No,” the answer comes instantly, firmly. She’s going to reassure him she isn’t leaving again, but he continues, his brows furrowed together. “Why are you doing this?”

After a moment, she understands. “You’re sick. And I didn’t think you’d leave work if I didn’t make you. You’d be passed out on Grounders floor.”

“That’s not your problem,” he points out.

He sounds so certain. As if his well-being isn’t anyone else’s concern, as if it’s so _unfathomable_ that she would care. It hurts her, guts her, that Bellamy believes that.

“Maybe not,” Clarke admits. She’s not his mother, certainly not his girlfriend. But. “I care about you, Bellamy. I care if you’re not okay.”

Clarke has her doubts that he’ll remember this conversation. He’s incoherent. It takes some of the weight off her chest, at least, for her to confess that. She cares about him more than she should. She _always_ cares more than she should.

They sink into silence, into the cool comfort of the dark bedroom. Clarke listens to his rattling breaths. Her mind is tired, but she fights sleep’s pull. She’s afraid he’s going to get worse if she closes her eyes. Clarke starts humming quietly just to keep herself awake.

She thinks Bellamy has drifted off until she hears him speak, low and with a lost, almost childlike sadness. “I don’t remember my mom ever doing this.”

Clarke suspects what he means, and it’s heartbreaking, but she has to ask. “Doing what?”

“Nursing me back to health.” He tries to sound dismissive, but the sadness is there, its claws hooked deep. “She must have, at some point, but I have no memory of it. All I remember is O getting sick and always wanting ice cream for her sore throat. Mint chocolate chip.”

Clarke stays quiet, just shifting closer to let him know she’s listening. His affection for his little sister is clear in the stories about her growing up, but Bellamy so rarely brings her up.

“She was a resilient kid,” he continues. “Getting sick never slowed her down. Still scared me to death every time, though. My mom worked two jobs. I had to stay home from school and watch her when she was sick, since there was no one else. Just me. O loved it though. Our sick days. She could be puking her guts out, but she was over the moon, because we got to spend the day together.”

Clarke reaches for his hand, ice-cold now, and laces their fingers together. Her throat tightens in pain for him, the nostalgic ache in his tone. “You were close.”

“We _were_ ,” he corrects bitterly, sorrowfully. “Until she decided she hated me.”

Her eyes squeeze shut. Clarke figured as much. Something had to put that distance there, but it’s still awful to hear him confirm it.

Bellamy attempts to clear the wetness out of his throat. When her eyes open, Clarke sees the tear glistening on his cheek. “Anyway. I guess I learned how to deal with it, when I got sick. It was my problem.”

His hand squeezes hers and Clarke understands Bellamy’s way of explaining himself and thanking her for being there. She doesn’t say she’s sorry, for the broken relationship with the sister he adored or the mother that didn’t have time to take care of him, so Bellamy didn’t take care of himself. He isn’t looking for her pity.

A little bit more and she’s starting to see why Bellamy doesn’t let people get too close. She isn’t sure that he knows how to anymore. But he’s making an effort for _her_ , letting her in.

Tears sting Clarke’s eyes and she aches inside for what has hurt him in the past. She wishes horribly that she could wash it away, scrub his pain clean, but knows it doesn’t work like that.

All she can do is be here for him now. And she will.

 

* * *

 

Clarke knows Bellamy is feeling better when he shows up at lunch-time, parks his Jeep in front of Azgeda’s building and texts her: _come downstairs._

Her stupid heart does a little flutter when his name appears on her phone screen. Clarke feels like a fourteen-year-old girl. She takes a moment, lets the dumbness pass, and replies. _Working, hello???_

_you’re eating lunch. get your ass down here._

Clarke snorts, part in amusement and part in irritation. _Or what?_

_or i’ll come up there and get u._

The thing is, Clarke doesn’t doubt that he will. Bellamy doesn’t make threats lightly. She gets caught up in a brief fantasy about Bellamy charging up to their floor and throwing Clarke over his broad shoulder. It’s sexier than it should be.

Another text from him buzzes in: _u have 3 min._

Clarke pushes back a smile. She shouldn’t allow this behavior. This is revenge for dragging him out of Grounders, but he was _sick_ and it’s totally different. Still, she logs out of her computer and grabs her purse from her desk.

She can see Bellamy through the car’s window, his fingers drumming impatiently on the steering wheel. He’s wearing dark sunglasses and a leather jacket, looking unfairly hot. He unlocks the passenger side when she knocks.

“Good choice,” he greets lowly, mouth pulling sideways into a smirk.

“Was it a choice?” Clarke asks doubtfully. He puts the car in drive and pulls away from the building. Her eyes run over him. “Someone’s feeling better.”

He dips his chin. “I am. I had a pretty good nurse.”

Clarke ducks her head to smile, even though Bellamy is focused on the road ahead of them. She’s curious, but doesn’t pester him about what he remembers from his fever. If he remembers asking her to stay, their conversation or the way he cried in front of her.

She doesn’t expect them to talk about it again and that’s okay. Truly, all that matters to her is Bellamy feeling better. And despite the work waiting for her, she’s happy to eat lunch with him.

Bellamy drives them to her favorite little diner, a place that serves deliciously greasy burgers and milkshakes. Clarke gasps in excitement when they park in front of Stella’s. “Oh, you know how to get a girl’s panties off, Blake.”

He doesn’t laugh at her joke, oddly serious as he rolls the gearshift into park. Clarke senses a shift in the air and turns toward him expectedly. He slides off his sunglasses, tosses them in the console before he looks at her.

“Clarke.” Bellamy pauses, licking his lips. A jolt of anticipation goes through her. “I just wanted to say…I care about you too. You know that, right?”

A deep exhale. She isn’t sure if it’s relief or disappointment she’s feeling. “You remember that?”

He smiles slightly. “Of course. A bit fuzzy, but yeah.”

Clarke waits for the embarrassment to hit, maybe regret too. But she doesn’t feel wrong for fretting over him or making sure he got the rest he needed. Maybe because she knows Bellamy would do the same for her. He has shown that he cares, too.

“Yeah,” Clarke murmurs. “I know that.”

She’s known that a long time now. When she realized it, she isn’t sure. Sometime in between Bellamy offering to visit her apartment with her when Finn was there and now, little gestures like asking about her mom’s health or tickling her when she was sad, so many of Bellamy’s actions speaking for themselves.

Bellamy nods to himself. “Good.” He unlocks the car doors. “Let’s go eat.”

They sit in a red cushioned booth by the window, their knees knocking together under the table. The place is kind of tacky. The menu is fixed and takes absolutely zero substitutions or custom changes, but the milkshakes are to die for.

There’s an obnoxious painting of dogs playing poker on the wall next to them. Last time they were here, it was late at night and Clarke couldn’t stop giggling at the painting for some reason.

The waitress swings by and Clarke orders her cheeseburger, fries and a large strawberry shortcake shake. Bellamy watches with amusement every time she dips a fry in her shake and probably makes the same pornographic face.

She kicks at his ankle. “Stop looking at me!”

Bellamy laughs. “Do you want me to go? I feel like you want to be alone with your milkshake.”

As they eat, Clarke tells him about the meeting with Eligius at work. She’s warming up to her question. The charity event is going to be filled with rich assholes pretending to care about helping worthy causes, but it might be more tolerable if Bellamy goes with her.

“So, I have something to ask you.”

He sets down his cup and nods at her. “Shoot.”

The question is sitting on her tongue, but then Clarke catches sight of a familiar profile over Bellamy’s shoulder. “Oh my god.”

“What?” He demands when her jaw hangs open.

Murphy and Raven enter the diner. They head to a table across the restaurant and seat themselves. Even at this distance, Clarke can read the awkwardness between them.

Murphy is fiddling with his utensils like he can’t keep still and Raven’s dark head is bowed, either staring at her lap or the menu, determinedly not looking up at him. What is going on over there?

Clarke jerks her chin behind him. “Our roommates are _also_ having lunch.”

Eyes widening, Bellamy twists in his chair to see. He lets out a chuckle when he spots them. “I’ll be damned. Murphy is dressed and outside at noon.”

As far as she knows, Raven _never_ meets her for lunch. She claims to be eating with Sinclair at the mechanic shop when she’s working or on other days, on “business lunches” about marketing her app prototype to companies. Like today.

“She lied,” Clarke realizes. Bellamy turns back, his eyebrow arching in question. “Raven told me she had a meeting with someone from Apple today.”

Bellamy reflects her surprise. “Why would they keep that a secret?”

Clarke can’t wrap her head around it. She knows about Murphy’s feelings, obviously. Although Raven has flirted with him at times, Clarke wasn’t sure if Raven took any of that seriously. She never said anything, never gave any hint that she knows Murphy is in love with her.

Clarke didn’t tell a soul about Murphy’s feelings. She wouldn’t betray his trust. But now, she quickly informs Bellamy about finding the two of them talking alone by the lake at the campsite.

“Just talking?” Bellamy clarifies. “That doesn’t mean anything. They’ve gotten closer lately, but I doubt anything is going on.”

Clarke has half a mind to get up and confront them. It doesn’t sit well with her that Raven lied to her face. Then, her own hypocrisy catches up. She’s been lying to Raven, sneaking around behind her back, for months. What right does she have to call Raven out?

Most of the time, Clarke can talk herself out of the guilt. She tells herself Raven has no right to dictate who she or Bellamy sleeps with. It isn’t her business. But the guilt lodges in her throat now, refusing to be moved. It would hurt just like this, if Raven found out the truth.

Clarke knows what it’s like to be lied to by someone you care about. The horrible feeling of the world dropping out from under you when you realize your trust has been broken, wrongly misplaced.

And she betrayed the one thing Raven asked her _not_ to do. Maybe the request was too much to ask, but Raven was only thinking of sparing more roommate drama. And of Clarke’s feelings if she got in too deep with Bellamy.

Her appetite is ruined after that. They leave the diner shortly after and manage to sneak by their roommates. They’re driving back to Azgeda when Bellamy asks, “What did you want to ask me?”

“Oh, right,” Clarke says, drawing out of her shameful trance. “Um. Will you go with me to the charity thing? I mean, you can say no. It’s not exactly going to be a fun time for you. I just thought it might not totally suck if we go together.”

“Aww, are you asking me on a _date_ , Clarke?” Bellamy teases.

She huffs through her nose. “Not a date. A mutually painful experience.”

“Sounds tempting,” he says dryly. “Is there going to be booze at this thing?”

“It’s an open bar.”

“Then I guess I’m in,” he answers.

Bellamy drops her off at Azgeda. She is dragged back under a pile of work, but her thoughts are elsewhere, stuck on her roommates. It nags at her all day, back to the apartment that night. Clarke knows she won’t find peace of mind until she gets some answers.

Murphy is cooking them spaghetti in the kitchen. She can smell the homemade sauce he’s so proud of. Ironically, this is supposed to the night they all set aside to have dinner together. It doesn’t happen often, with their conflicting schedules, but Raven has made the effort since she and the boys started living together. One night every month, all roommates present.

Clarke knocks on her bedroom door, waits for Raven to call out, “Come in.”

Rock music stream from the laptop on her desk, among the organized chaos that only Raven’s mind can work through. Raven is lying in the middle of her bed, her legs propped on the wall and her brace on the floor beside her. She’s reading a thick book on algorithms.

Clarke has a minute to look around as Raven is absorbed in her reading. Her room is messy as usual. Clarke has a bad habit of picking up whenever she comes in here and Raven has to throw her out. For the first time, Clarke looks closely at the photos tacked above Raven’s bed.

She’s seen them before, at a glance. Photos of their friends over the years. A new one of her, Raven and Harper at brunch from last month. Now, Clarke’s eyes latch on to one that’s just of Raven and Murphy with fresh curiosity.

Someone else obviously took the Polaroid without them realizing. Murphy is sitting on a bathroom counter as Raven stands intimately between his legs. His hair is in disarray, dressed in some kind of rock costume and he’s smiling at Raven as she has an eyeliner pencil in her hand, her head tipped back in laughter.

 _Halloween 2018_ is scribbled at the bottom.

Raven arranges herself into a sitting position, shutting her book. “What’s up?”

Clarke shuts the door softly and leans back against it. “Can we talk?”

Her face blank, she nods for Clarke to go ahead.

It’s Raven, so she doesn’t waste time skirting around the point. “Is there something going on between you and Murphy?”

Immediately, Raven scoffs. “What? Why would you think that?”

Clarke shrugs a shoulder, her arms crossed. “Maybe it was nothing. But when we were camping, I accidentally saw you guys sitting out by the lake, in the middle of the night.”

As Clarke says it, she feels like a terrible person, the worst kind of hypocrite. Poking into Raven’s business while Bellamy was in _her_ tent the next night actually fucking her. Clarke vows to come clean to her roommate. Eventually.

She just means seeing them talking, but Raven’s expression stills. Her shoulders tense up just enough to let Clarke know she’s stumbled onto something.

She lets the silence sit between them for Raven to pick up the thread. Gives her the chance to deny anything happened or open up or whatever it is she wants to do. Clarke will leave it alone, honestly, if that’s what Raven wants. She more than owes her that.

But the breath leaves Raven’s body in a heavy exhale, her shoulders slumping. “Damn it.”

Carefully, Clarke tilts her head. “What?”

“It only happened once, okay?” Raven snaps, already on the defensive. “A stupid kiss. It was late and we were drinking all that beer…Whatever. It didn’t _mean_ anything.”

They kissed. Clarke works hard to hide her shock. Underneath, there’s another twist of hurt like someone has wrenched her stomach with their hand. Why didn’t Murphy tell her this? They’ve been back for days.

Swallowing roughly, Clarke asks, “It meant nothing?”

Her tone is smooth, bland, but Raven glares at her like she’s insinuating something. “Why?” She demands, sharp as a blade. “What did Murphy say to you?”

If Clarke didn’t know better, she’d think there’s an undercurrent of jealousy in Raven’s voice. A part of her wants to pick at it, see where it goes, but she won’t be cruel. It doesn’t matter if Raven is jealous of her friendship with Murphy, as ridiculous as that is. Not if she can’t admit a kiss between them was meaningful.

“He hasn’t said a word to me about it,” Clarke admits. Softer, she says, “Rave, it’s okay. It’s okay if meant something.”

Raven holds on tight to her anger. She’s wearing it like a spiked shield around her. Her dark eyes glint dangerously, warning for Clarke to keep out. “Of course _you_ would say that.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Forget it,” Raven spits. “This is none of your business, Clarke. I didn’t talk about to you or anyone for a reason. I was drunk, I kissed my roommate. Big deal.”

They’re interrupted by banging on the door before Clarke can say anything else. “La cena è servita!” Murphy calls out. They hear him banging on everyone’s door. “You’re gonna wanna kiss the cook, this sauce is so good!”

Clarke winces at his choice of words. Raven put her leg brace on and brushes past her out the door. Reluctantly, she follows.

Her roommate puts on a good front during dinner. It could fool Clarke if she wasn’t there for their conversation in her room. Raven acts like everything is normal and Murphy plays along perfectly, interjecting snarky comments in their stories and laughing with Bellamy.

No hint that there’s a secret between them. Clarke realizes that maybe she and Bellamy aren’t the only actors in their home.

Clarke volunteers to handle clean-up with Raven after dinner, but the other girl has a steel wall up between them. She doesn’t say a word to Clarke, silently handing off dishes for her to dry, and disappears upstairs as soon as they’re done.

Like clockwork, Murphy is taking his smoke break around nine. Their landlord is strict about not smoking in the apartments, so Murphy is forced out onto the fire-escape whenever he wants a cigarette. Clarke knows where to find him when she wants to speak alone, away from their roommates’ listening ears.

“You’re not bumming one of these from me,” Murphy says when Clarke climbs onto the fire-escape with him. “I pay $10 a pop.”

“That’s a tragic waste of money,” Clarke informs him. “And I don’t smoke.”

Clarke tucks her knees against her chest, huddling against the crisp air. Murphy blows out rings of smoke and periodically taps his cigarette on the railing, sprinkling ash.

“Not that I don’t cherish your company, Princess,” he drawls after some time, “but this is usually Murphy’s alone time. What do you want?”

Clarke smirks briefly. She turns her head away from the brick wall they’re facing to glance at him. “So you and Raven kissed.”

A stunned pause before Murphy exhales smoke in a snort. “Oh, are we having a slumber party out here?” he bites. “Gonna paint our nails and talk about kissing girls? Gimme a fucking break.”

She bites her lip. It doesn’t take long for Clarke to understand why he didn’t tell her himself. He’s already in a mood. She lets him bitch for a minute and then says, “Bellamy and I saw you guys at Stella’s diner.”

Murphy shakes his head. “I _knew_ that was his fucking Jeep outside!”

“Raven lied to me. She said she was having a meeting that day for lunch.”

His lips twist into a humorless scowl. “Yeah, well, Reyes is full of bullshit lately. She made me go to that Awkward Lunch from Hell just so we could pretend that nothing happened.”

Clarke winces sympathetically. “That’s the story I got too. So what actually _did_ happen?”

“We made out like a couple of middle-schoolers,” Murphy says with false nonchalance. “Juicy stuff. You and Bellamy are getting way more action. I picked the wrong roommate.”

“Look, I don’t know what’s going on with her,” she says, sighing. “She’s shut me out. But you and I know Raven. She wouldn’t be trying so hard to act unaffected if it really meant nothing to her.”

Murphy nods to himself, inhaling on what’s left of his cigarette and notes, “We’re all nicely fucked-up aren’t we? Me and Reyes. You and Bellamy. A match made in paradise.”

It should probably offend her, but Clarke can’t argue with that. All of her lying to her friends is nothing compared to how much she’s been lying to herself. Hiding from her own feelings, which only seem to grow more out-of-control by the day.

If Clarke stops for a second, she’ll have to admit to herself that _she_ is not in control here. Her heart has taken off into the stars and left her behind on earth. Her head has been shouting for it to come back down to reality, but there is only radio silence.

“Yeah,” she mutters. “Maybe we are.”

 

* * *

 

His thumb is stroking her knee. She doesn’t think he’s aware that he’s doing it, sweeping in absent patterns as he reads the book propped in his lap. Clarke is supposed to be reading the documents from the Eligius file, studying for seeing Diyoza at the charity dinner, but she’s continuously distracted by Bellamy and his tingling touch. 

It’s a perfect, lazy Sunday morning. Raven canceled on brunch, still sulking, and had gone to the mechanic shop for the day. Clarke isn’t too worried about her, at the moment, still floating on the blissful high of her afterglow. Bellamy spent the last half-hour going down on her before they had slow, indulgent morning sex.

Now Clarke is melted against her headboard, wearing only the faded T-shirt she slept in. Bellamy lounges beside her, hair hotly tousled from her fingers’ work, and bare-chested with a pair of sweatpants slung low. The sight of his sharp hipbones and dark sprinkle of hair disappearing into his waistband is _very_ distracting.

Bellamy nudges his glasses further up his nose and comments, “I can feel you staring at me.”

“I like to look at art,” Clarke replies cheekily.

He snorts at that, saying nothing as he flips another page of his book. The Lumineers are playing in the background from her laptop and Clarke takes her time to look at him, the relaxed curve of his body, lazy smirk resting on his full lips as he ignores her greedy gaze.

Clarke abandons the heap of business documents for her closest sketchbook, flipping to a clean page. She wants to draw him just like this, the quiet beauty of him, undisturbed. Her hand sketches the lovely splash of dark freckles on his nose and cheeks, the small dip in his chin, the splay of his large hand over the book’s spine.

She draws him looking down as he reads, his expression thoughtful and loose with peace. The slight, studious furrow between his dark brows. He looks best like this to her, when his rough edges are smoothed away and he’s just soft, happy.

There’s a thump as Bellamy sets his book down and then he taps her knee. “Let me see.”

Clarke’s fingers curl over the finished sketch, shyness creeping up on her. She almost doesn’t want _anyone_ to see, not even him. The tender way she strokes the lines on the page feels personal. When Clarke glances at the drawing all she sees is _her Bellamy_. The way she likes to think is for her eyes only.

With a sigh, Clarke reluctantly hands the sketchbook off to him. She feels more vulnerable than during the meeting with Eligius as Bellamy looks at it, as if she just handed him her raw, beating heart on a platter. Her sketchbook is the closest thing to her personal diary.

 _Here_ , she thinks. _This is how I look at you._

Bellamy’s throat bobs as he swallows, his eyes pouring over the page. His lips part in wonder. Clarke’s cheeks warm, fiddling with her charcoal as she waits for him to say something, anything. Her pulse flutters like a bird’s wings.

Finally, he meets her stare. “Can I keep this?”

“Really?” Clarke blurts. When he nods, she lets herself smile. “Yeah, okay.”

Carefully, Bellamy tears the page out and folds it, setting it on top of his book on the nightstand.

Clarke ducks into the bathroom and washes the charcoal stains off her hands. Her lips are still red and a bit swollen from before. Just looking at them, remembering their grinding under her sheets with her hair wrapped around Bellamy’s fingers, makes her tingle.

She hurries back to him and finds Bellamy staring at the sketch again. He looks up, his smile soft as she settles beside him and places it aside so he can cup her hips under her T-shirt. Clarke’s stomach dips as he draws her into his lap and kisses her, slow and sweet.

She parts his lips, slipping her tongue into his mouth. The world drops away, getting lost in each other. Clarke wants to burrow under his skin and stay there forever. Every time, it gets harder to pull herself away after. But this, this is the good part.

Bellamy’s rough hands caress the skin of her back. Clarke breaks away to strip off her shirt and delights in the way his eyes rake over her body, greedy for every exposed inch.

His tongue darts out to lick his lips, lust flared in his gaze. "God, look at you. So goddamn sexy, Clarke." 

He cups her tits, gives them a light squeeze. Sits up with her in his lap, bending his head to lick and suck at her hardened nipples. Clarke sighs as he pays the same tender attention to each breast. He’s so good, almost _worshipful_ lately in how he touches her.

Clarke can’t deny something changed between them in that tent. Now Bellamy is eager as ever to please her, drawing out their sex just like she does. Or maybe it’s just her, too selfish to let him go. She’s not sorry for it.

If this is all Clarke can have with him, she’s going to milk every second that he’s _hers_.

She attacks his mouth with fierce, hungry kisses, pushing him back down onto the bed. Her nipples graze the firm plane of his chest as Bellamy responds to her lips with equal fervor. Her blood stirs at the thought of tasting herself from him licking her cunt earlier.

She’s flooded with affection and gratitude for him, the way he loves her body so well, attentive to her needs. She wants to do the same for him.

Shifting back on his thighs, Clarke reaches into Bellamy’s sweatpants for his cock. Burning hot in her palm. Bellamy sighs, a sound of relief, as her thumb traces over the sensitive tip.

He raises his hips to help her tug his sweatpants off. His dick bobs free, thick and hard for her, the tip darkened a shiny red. Fresh desire sparks in her lower abdomen at the sight. Clarke licks her lips and meets Bellamy’s gaze, pupils blown wide, his smoldering heat.  

Bellamy smirks in amusement. “You hungry for my cock, babe?”

Clarke reaches for him again, too greedy to sit still. “Yeah, Bell, I want it.”

He leans back, his arm tucked under his head to watch her, let her have him.

She takes him into her mouth, just the head at first. His flavor blossoms on her tongue and Clarke moans for it, earthy and entirely _Bellamy_. The vibration reaches up his cock and she hears Bellamy swear out loud.

Clarke sucks hard on the round head, pressing and tracing her tongue against his slit. Bellamy threads his fingers through her hair, tightening as she licks up every drop of precome and moans for more. Giving Bellamy head gets her so hot.  She can feel the desire pulsing in her cunt. 

“Fucking hell, Clarke,” Bellamy groans, his voice wrecked. He pulls on her hair, a sweet sting and urges her, “Take a little more for me, babe.”

Obediently, Clarke slides more of his length into her mouth, feeling him heavy on her tongue. She gags a bit before relaxing her throat, blinking the moisture of her eyes.

“Good girl,” Bellamy praises. His head tosses back, breathing heavily through his nose as she swallows around him, sucking in her cheeks. “That feels incredible.”

Her hand jerks the inches she can’t fit in her mouth, the other reaching down to cup and gently squeeze his balls. Her eyes flick to Bellamy’s face; the pleasure she finds etched there hitting her like the best high. She loves the grimace he wears, the crease in his brow, the noises pouring out of him.

His half-lidded eyes meet hers, clouded by pleasure. Bellamy cradles her aching jaw and touches her bottom lip, slick with spit. “Look at those pretty lips working for me,” he murmurs. “I love seeing you on your knees. Mouth full of my cock.”

His words make her stomach clench, a tight ball of arousal. She’s aching for relief now. Her cunt drenched and throbbing between her legs.

“Don’t touch yourself,” Bellamy warns her, a sharp command that has Clarke freezing before her hand can slip into her panties. Her wide eyes gape at him, pleading. She wants it so bad, fingering her clit as she sucks him off.

“ _No_ ,” Bellamy answers and fuck if his forceful tone doesn’t make her wetter. “I’ll take care of you, Princess. Not yet.”

At Bellamy’s firm tug on her hair, Clarke picks up her slack, ignoring how desperate she is to touch herself, provide some relief. The only thing keeping her going is knowing Bellamy is going to make is worth the wait, soon.

Her tongue laps at the length of him, fat licks and then slow, teasing swirls over his cockhead. The spit makes it a smooth glide when Clarke bobs her head, sucks at him, and soon feels his balls draw up tight. He’s close.

“Fuck,” he hisses and slips herself out of her mouth before he can finish. His breaths come harsh and heavy. Clarke loves seeing him like this, out-of-control and as turned-on as she is.

His hands grab at her hips, rolling Clarke onto her back under him. He reaches for her panties next, peeling the lace off her legs and adding it to their pile on her bedroom floor. Her heart races in anticipation as she spreads her legs, soaked and ready for him.

Bellamy braces himself above her, one hand placed beside her head on the pillow. His body’s warmth and scent envelope her, a dizzying combination that Clarke could live off of, caged underneath him. And she wants him closer still, filling her up.

“Couldn’t wait to get inside you,” Bellamy says before kissing her, his tongue dipping into her mouth the exact way she anticipates him thrusting into her cunt.

He pulls back, taking his cock into his grip and rubs himself teasingly through her slick folds. The tip nudges her clit with the upward slide and Clarke moans.

“Oh, God,” she gasps. “Do that again. _Please_.”

Bellamy grins down at her, wolfish, and obliges, gliding his hard length against her cunt. He coats himself in her slickness. They both moan when he grinds his cockhead against her clit. Clarke’s back arches into it, it feels so fucking good.

"Yeah, Clarke? You like that?" Bellamy keeps up the back and forth pace, making her shudder every time her clit is stroked. "You gonna come just from this?" 

Clarke whimpers. Yes, she is. Her toes are curling. "Please, Bellamy. Please don't stop." 

"Oh, you  _are_." Bellamy chuckles darkly, eyes sharp on her face, twisted with pleasure. He rubs his cockhead faster on her, a perfect vibration on her clit. "Go ahead, sweetheart. Said I was gonna take care of you, remember?" 

She comes with a relieved cry, her pussy fluttering in hot pulses. Fuck, it's good. Clarke moans through the swells of her orgasm, grasping her tits and pinching at her nipples for something to hold onto, making it even better. 

Bellamy draws back to let her recover. "Fucking gorgeous," he hisses. 

When her eyes crack open, he's watching her hungrily as she pants for breath and jerking himself in unhurried pumps. Clarke's cunt twitches just from the way he watched her come like it was the hottest thing he's ever seen. 

"Bell, come on," she urges him. "I need you to fuck me." 

"Oh, I will," he swears to her. "I'm not done with you yet, Princess. Don't worry." 

Clarke waits impatiently as he roots around in her bedside drawer for a condom. The kind he likes and brazenly stored there himself, which she thankfully hadn’t put back into his room. She _had_ been tempted to at first, annoyed at his presumption.

Now Clarke is glad for it, because his room seems impossibly far away right now. Bellamy rolls the condom onto himself and bends down to kiss her again, swallowing her gasp when he finally pushes in. Her cunt, still tingling from her orgasm, clenches on the sudden intrusion. 

That sound melts into a low, contented moan. She feels the smoothness of his cock inside her, the heat, fitting into her perfectly. The delicious drag against her inner walls when he pulls his hips back. Again and again, a steady rhythm building.

“Oh, Bell,” Clarke moans, mouth dropping open, her brow wrinkling. “You feel so good.”

Bellamy brushes her hair out of her face to get a look at her, runs his thumb across her temple. “You too, babe.  All warm and wet for me. Fucking perfect. I can’t get enough of you.”

Clarke drags him down to claim his mouth. Her arms slide around his neck, curling her fingers into his hair as they kiss passionately. Her thighs bracket around his rolling hips, locking her ankles on the small of his back. Something deep inside Clarke’s chest settles, a longing finally being silenced.

This is everything she aches for during the day when they’re apart, his tongue caressing hers, naked skin flushed together, the beautiful intimacy.

Bellamy slides his lips slowly away, their breaths echoing between them in soft pants. He kisses under her jaw, down her neck, on her tits and taut nipples until she’s shivering under him. “You’re so beautiful, Clarke. How did I get so lucky, huh?”

Clarke’s eyes close at that. Her throat tightens. She has to remind herself he doesn’t mean it, not like that. This is supposed to be casual, no-strings fucking. Except it’s impossible to remember that when they’re wrapped together like this and all she feels is him.

His nose grazes her cheek until she opens her eyes, looks back at him. Bellamy takes her hands and pins them above her head, interlocked with his. God, what is he _doing_ to her? Like she has any choice but to get lost in his intense stare.

She forgets the world when he does this, not looking away. And it becomes almost painfully intimate. Because for that time, Clarke lets herself believe it means something. Something real, that could last outside the four walls of a bedroom.

Her hips arch upward to move with his, finding the perfect angle and pace that has her moaning with every thrust. Bellamy’s husky voice murmuring to her beckons her closer and closer to another orgasm.

“God, you feel amazing. Take my cock so well, babe.” He nips at her neck, sucks on the skin. “Gonna come for me again, yeah? I can feel it. You’re close.”

“Yes, yes,” Clarke cries, squeezing tight at his fingers. Pleasure roars through her, tingling and sweet, as his cock hits her G-spot. “Bell, touch me, please.”

“I’ve got you.” Bellamy lets go of her hand to swipe at her clit, listening to her high, desperate moans. “That’s it, pretty girl. You look so good when you come. Let me see it.”

Clarke cries out his name with her release, her thighs shaking and pussy contracting on his dick. Bellamy growls in the back of his throat as she tightens around him. His rhythm breaks, hips stuttering and comes right after her. His hand squeezes hers, still clasped together. Bellamy lets out loud, sexy groan into her neck, pulsing inside her as he finishes.

They collapse next to each other, breathless and spent. Clarke combs her sweat-matted hair off her forehead, her face and chest warmly flushed. She feels like she could curl up right there and sleep for a thousand years. 

Bellamy rolls onto his side after slipping off the condom. Their lips meet, no more than a lazy press against each other as their bodies cool. Clarke doesn't let him get far, laying her cheek on his bare chest when they pull apart. He strokes her hip bone as they lie together quietly. Her eyes close, washed in peace, listening to his thumping heartbeat. 

It’s too soon when he sits up, rummaging his fingers through his mussed curls. “I gotta shower.”

Clarke watches him stand up and pull on his sweatpants, the taste of disappointment bitter on her tongue. No hard feelings. He got off, he’s done with her now. This is what they agreed on. So why does it hurt? Why isn’t this fun anymore?

“Princess,” Bellamy says to get her attention, hovering in the bathroom’s doorway. He smiles slyly. “Get in with me. I’ll wash your hair.”

Her mouth curves into a smile at his offer. He makes the hurt worth it, looking at her from under his fringe of curls, brown eyes glinting. “How can I say no to that?”

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading and supporting this fic!  
> Here's my [tumblr](http://www.kombellarke.tumblr.com)


	11. Oh, Sister

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, my loves! First, thank you all so much for your support of this fic. Every time I read a new comment, it brings such a big smile to my face. You guys are the bomb ❤️
> 
> So, this is a massive chapter. It has a lot of scenes that have been planned from the beginning and I can't wait to see all of your reactions! We've got making-up and fighting to get through before the happy ending. 
> 
> I would call this chapter Angst Part I. 
> 
> Enjoy!

 

* * *

 

Azgeda Inc’s charity dinner is being held at Gem, an upscale, waterfront restaurant on the Pier.  The company is hosting an auction; which donations will be given to medical research for the local children’s hospital. The biggest auction piece is, of course, the 85-foot yacht on the water.

The rich assholes’ money is going to a good cause, so Clarke tries not to be too annoyed she has to attend this thing. She’ll suck up to Diyoza for a bit, get drunk on cocktails with Bellamy (on the company’s tab) and fuck in his car after. A promising night.

Clarke does end up wearing a black gown with a sweetheart cut and a pair of pearl dangle earrings from her mother. She puts on her favorite shade of red lipstick, grabs her clutch and heads downstairs to meet Bellamy in front of the apartment building where his Jeep is parked.

He’s leaning on the side of it, head bent over his phone and peers up when the door opens and Clarke emerges onto the sidewalk. His awed face lights her up inside and Clarke can’t stop herself from beaming at him, her earlier irritation completely evaporated.

“Hi,” she giggles.

“Holy shit,” Bellamy blurts, his eyebrows raised high. “You look _gorgeous_ , Clarke.”

“Thanks,” she murmurs, feeling almost shy under his wide, stunned eyes drinking her figure in. Warmth creeps into her cheeks.

Murphy’s middle-school comment isn’t far off. Sometimes, Bellamy makes her feel like that, small and fearful with the head-dizzying gale of a first crush. It’s so different from the confidence she has in bed, but not in a bad way. Not at all.

She takes Bellamy in as well, the dark sports coat and slacks that make his body seem even longer, his shoulders broader. His hands in his pockets, looking up at her from under a fringe of curls as he awaits her approval, sharp jaw freshly shaven. He looks perfect.

Her attraction to him burns in her chest, a flame that flickers with affection and desire and giddiness. So much it can make her hands shake if she doesn’t tighten them into composed fists. Clarke almost panics.

This isn’t a crush. This a powerful whirlwind that is going to swallow her whole. She can’t stop it, can’t run from it. The storm already has her trapped in its tracks.

Bellamy glances down at his blue dress shirt self-consciously. “Should I have worn a tie?”

Clarke sucks in a deep breath and puts on a smile. “No. You’re perfect.”

He ducks his head, his eyelids fluttering and the affection wins out, flaring warmly behind her sternum. She grapples for something so say before a stupid comment flies off her lips. “I didn’t know you had a sports jacket.”

“I don’t,” Bellamy confesses, unlocking and opening the passenger side door for her. He flashes her a private grin as she climbs in. “Miller let me borrow it.”

“Well,” Clarke says over the ignition starting. “You look dapper, Mr. Blake.”

Bellamy laughs softly. “Thanks.”

They hand Bellamy’s Jeep off the valet when they arrive at Gem’s. He offers Clarke his arm to hang onto as they walk up the stairs to the entrance. It’s a beautiful, clear night outside with the moon glinting off the harbor’s water.

Bellamy scoffs derisively at the sight of the luxury yacht. “For fuck’s sake, what kind of jackass needs a boat _that_ big?”

“To compensate for their small dicks,” Clarke offers.

He bobs his head in agreement, smirking as he comes with an alternative. “Or bribes for their bratty children to love them.”

It becomes a game between them, how they keep themselves sane during the first miserable cocktail hour of the dinner. They speculate on shallow reasons for the elite guests to spend their fortunes on the auction items.

Bellamy’s best theory is that one gentleman is actually a jewel thief in disguise that conned his way into the event and that explains his desperate bidding for the sapphire necklace.

Clarke is having fun and almost forgets she’s supposed to be working when she spots Roan headed towards them, dressed in a tailored, Italian silk suit.

“God, you look like a douchebag,” Clarke greets him and feels Bellamy shooting her an appalled look. That look intensifies after Roan kisses her on the cheek and introduces himself to Bellamy.

“I’m Roan King,” he says, extending his hand. “Clarke’s boss.”

Clarke snorts, taking a sip of her champagne. “My boss’s _son_. He only thinks he’s in charge of me.”

There is a disdainful curl to Bellamy’s lip fixed on Roan’s Rolex watch peeking out from under his sleeve. She can only imagine what he’s thinking about her friend. Bellamy holds the biggest grudge against the privileged and disgustingly wealthy out of everyone she knows.

Bellamy grips Roan’s hand in return and gives it a harder-than-necessary shake. The two men size each other up silently. “Bellamy Blake,” he says.

Roan’s mouth curves like something amuses him. He lets go without comment and turns to her, cocking his eyebrow.  “Are you drunk already, Griffin?”

Clarke grimaces. “’ Course not. I’ve had two glasses of champagne!”

“Three,” Bellamy says under his breath. She hits his arm with her clutch.

Roan glances between the two of them with interest and even though she is a bit buzzed, Clarke feels a streak of apprehension zip down her spine. “I thought you were supposed to be _my_ date.”

“Technically, I never agreed to that,” Clarke counters.

Roan hums and then plucks the champagne glass out of her hand, gulping it down for himself. He ignores her cry of protest and takes her hand to pull her out of her seat. “You’re here to mingle, not make a drunken ass out of yourself.”

Bellamy doesn’t hide his scowl this time. “Where are you taking her?”

Roan smirks down at him. Clarke nearly steps on his foot with her heel. She knows that condescending look, used many times to get on people’s nerves and she doesn’t like it directed at Bellamy.

“I need Clarke’s pretty face to charm a few people,” Roan says and winks at her. She digs her nail into his arm in warning. “I won’t keep your date long, I promise. Have some oysters while we’re gone!”

Roan sweeps her away from their table. His hand on her lower back slips down, brushing her ass. Although it _could_ be an accident, Clarke knows better. She swats his hand away as they disappear into the mingling crowd.

“What the hell?” Clarke hisses into Roan’s ear. “Why are you being are a dick to Bellamy?”

“Just having some fun,” he replies easily. “This dinner is dull. And don’t think I missed the way your boy was mean mugging me. He’s got a real chip on his shoulder.”

Clarke shakes her head. “You don’t know him, Roan, and he doesn’t know you. Maybe don’t flash your 18-carat gold watch in people’s faces and they’ll like you more.”

She makes the necessary rounds with Roan, nudging his hand off the small of her back in case Bellamy is watching them. After their conversation in the tent, she doesn’t want him getting the wrong idea about her and Roan. Clarke has told him they are just friends and she knows Roan likes getting under people’s skin.

Finally, just as Clarke is feeling too sober and contemplating jumping into the harbor, they run into Charmaine Diyoza. She’s sharply dressed in a black pants suit and her hair tied into its customary tight bun, sipping a drink at her eyes prowl over the room.

Roan nudges her forward and Clarke strides up to talk to her with a confidence she doesn’t feel. Her heart is pounding. But she’s good at putting on a self-assured front so Nia or other clients never see her sweat.

“Clarke Griffin,” Diyoza says when she approaches. “Somehow, I didn’t think I’d see _you_ here rubbing elbows with these snobs. Trolling for a sugar daddy?”

Clarke smirks despite herself. “Actually, I’m here for you.”

She swallows the rest of her drink and nods at her to speak. “You get me another vodka tonic and I’m all yours, baby.”

Diyoza keeps her word, listening to all of Clarke’s sales pitch without interrupting. Roan coached her on what to say and Clarke studied the right figures to cite to woo the woman into taking Azgeda’s deal. 

When she’s done, Diyoza flashes a thin smile. “Look, I’m going to be straight with you, Clarke. I’ve got good instincts and listening to my gut has never failed me before. I don’t trust that boss of yours, Nia. Something’s not right with her. I’m not going to jeopardize my business by getting into a bed that has dirty sheets. You understand?”

Clarke nods that she does. Honestly, she doesn’t blame her. She can’t say for certain that Azgeda’s business _isn’t_ shady. Clarke doesn’t feel an overwhelming amount of loyalty to the company to bother defending it. And Diyoza doesn’t strike her as the type to fall for it anyway.

“A word of advice,” Diyoza says before Clarke can head back to Roan with her answer. “You’re wasting your time at that place, Clarke.”

She tilts her head curiously. “You think that after seeing _one_ of my designs?”

“As I said, my instincts are never wrong.” Diyoza runs her eyes over her with that sharp perception. “You’ve got real talent and a good eye. It’s a shame to be wasting it on corporate advertisements.”

“It’s not a waste,” Clarke argues. “It’s my job. It pays well. And Nia has contacts to every major corporation in Polis. A year from now, I can find something better, with her blessing.”

“You really think she’s going to let you go?” Diyoza asks, arching a skeptical eyebrow. When Clarke falls silent, she presses on, sensing her weak spot. “Here’s the rub: you won’t make bank with me. Not like at Azgeda. But I showcase artists, Clarke, _real_ artists at my galleries. You could be one of them.”

The air stops circulating in her lungs. Clarke is sure she misheard her. “Are you offering me a spot in your art gallery?”

Diyoza smirks at her incredulous reaction. “Easy there, killer. I’d have to take a look at your portfolio first and then we can talk. But yes, that’s the idea. I’m opening a new gallery in Polis and searching for local artists to display.” Her eyes narrow. “Are you interested?”

Her voice abandons her. Clarke doesn’t know what to say. It’s like being handed a winning lottery ticket without ever playing. A dream of hers being held in front of her, within arms’ reach. Her artwork being shown and even bought by people who admire it.

And deep in her heart, Clarke has always dreamed of owning her own gallery. Running the showcases, working one-on-one with the artists in her gallery, her name on the door. Working with Diyoza could be the first step towards that dream becoming reality.

“I…yes,” Clarke stutters to respond. “Of course I’m _interested_. But I already have a job—”

Diyoza reaches into her pocket for her wallet and retrieves a white business card, passing it to Clarke. “Send me your portfolio. We’ll start there.”

In a daze, Clarke floats back to her table and somehow finds her seat. She vaguely hears her name being called and then Bellamy’s touch on her arm sends a jolt under her skin. She blinks at him.

“Sorry.” Clarke reaches for a glass of water on the table and takes a few sips. Bellamy watches her in concern. “Diyoza just kind of blew my mind.”

Roan reaches their table before she can elaborate, eyeing her expectedly. Clarke shakes her head, managing an apologetic frown. “She didn’t take the deal.”

He shrugs like this isn’t a surprise to him. “Mother will be displeased, but what else is new? I owe you a drink just for going toe-to-toe with her. Diyoza is a hardass. You want another glass of champagne?”

“She’s good with water,” Bellamy cuts in. He still has his hand curled over her arm. Clarke shivers at the possessive clutch. It’s unnecessary, but damn if it doesn’t snap her out of her shock and get her hot.

Clarke clears her throat, getting Roan’s attention from where he’s smirking at Bellamy again. “I think we’re gonna head out.”

Roan nods. He doesn’t make a fuss about her missing the dinner. “See you Monday, Griffin.”

He melts into the throng of well-dressed clients and billionaires. As soon as he’s gone, Clarke turns back to Bellamy, about to suggest they steal some appetizers to stuff into his coat’s pockets before they get the hell out of here. She has her eye on the crab puffs.

But she doesn’t get the chance. With his hand still wrapped around her wrist, Bellamy tugs Clarke to her feet and tows her behind him. Her heels clack on the sleek hardwood floor trying to keep up with his brisk pace.

She thinks he’s headed to the door to leave without any food, but Bellamy cuts across the room to a separate hallway.

“Bell,” Clarke protests in her confusion, “What are we—”

He steers them into the private restroom, the door clicking shut behind them. Clarke is thrown against the wood back-first, knocking the air out of her just as Bellamy’s mouth crushes her own.

He uses his grip to pin her wrist against the door, the rest of his body holding her in place as his lips ravage hers hotly, possessively. 

Clarke’s objections flatten into dust with the hot flick of his tongue. Instead, a moan escapes her and she latches onto the lapel of Bellamy’s coat to haul him in closer. Her pulse throbs with the desire raging through her veins.

He pushes his thigh between her legs, pressing himself against the furnace of her cunt. Clarke’s nails pinch his scalp as he rubs against her temptingly, drawing more moans off her lips. The friction is delicious. Her hips rock forward to chase it, growing wetter.

Bellamy bites at her neck, then sucks at the indentation from his teeth. Clarke’s head falls back on the wood with a thud, exposing her throat for him to nip at.

“You wet enough for me, Princess?” Bellamy’s voice is a growl in her ear.

“Mhmm,” Clarke answers absently. She certainly feels soaked. Her attention is fixed on the firm pressure of Bellamy’s thigh she’s riding.

The friction stops when he pulls away. Bellamy’s hand finds the slit in her long dress, moving it aside to peel her panties down her thighs.

Clarke lifts her head when the cold air hits her cunt. It clears some of the fog from her mind as well. They’re in a restroom with most of her co-workers and a hundred strangers right outside the walls. “Bell, we can’t.”

Bellamy’s eyes are all dark heat, blown pupils. He looks like a man possessed. His large hand cups her cunt, feeling her slickness. “No?” He asks, a cocky taunt. “You’d fuck me in Nightblood’s bathroom, but not _here_?”

“That’s different,” she snaps, gasping when the heel of his hand grinds into her clit. He’s playing dirty and he knows it. “This is for work. Let’s go home—”

Bellamy silences her protest, kissing her deeply and rubbing into her clit until her legs tremble, her resolve crumbling like flimsy paper. Her blood pounds under her skin for him. His whole hand must be coated from how wet she is.

“I don’t want to go home,” Bellamy murmurs to her when he breaks away and nips the shell of her ear, his breath warm. “I’m gonna fuck you right here. Make you scream loud enough for your boss to hear us.”

Her brain thinks that is a horrible idea, but her body is in control at the moment, driven by lust. _Yes_. It’s always yes for him. She needs Bellamy’s thick cock inside her _now_. Screw everything and everyone else.

Clarke reaches for the zipper of his dress pants and that earns her a victorious smirk.

Bellamy pulls himself out, rock hard in his palm, but pauses, his eyes flitting to hers. “I don’t have a condom.”

Clarke shakes her head, tugging insistently at his jacket. “Don’t care. Come on.”

She’s on birth control. The rest is a concern for later. Besides, she’s clean and she believes Bellamy when he says he hasn’t been with anyone else but her in months.

He doesn’t need to be told twice. Bellamy gets her leg hooked around his waist and lines himself up, thrusting smoothly inside her. Her slick walls embrace him inch by inch. Clarke sighs at the stretching sensation she loves, feeling Bellamy fill her cunt to the hilt.

He feels even better bare inside her. Bellamy drops his forehead against her shoulder, hissing through his teeth, “ _Fuck_ , Clarke.”

He starts fucking into her, hips slamming as forceful and as hot as his gruff voice promised. It’s been a while since they had sex like this, rough and fueled by raw need. Clarke almost forgot what a turn-on it is when Bellamy keeps her caged to the door, one hand squeezing her wrist hard, forcing her to take what he gives.

She’s dripping down her thighs because of it. She likes when it’s tender and she likes when it’s dirty too, when Bellamy leaves red marks on her throat and her ass. A part of her is relieved they can still fuck like this, can have all kinds of sex together.  

Clarke’s cries echo through the room at the harsh slide of his cock against her walls. “Oh, God,” she gasps, her nails digging into his covered back. “Yes, that’s so good, Bell!”

He kisses under her jaw, teases a sensitive spot with his teeth. “That’s right, babe. No one can fuck you like I can, huh?” His fingers clench on her hip. “ _Tell me_.”

She has no clue what’s gotten into Bellamy, but it’s sexy as fuck. Clarke isn’t complaining. He’s pounding into her like he can’t get enough, a half-crazed man in the desert desperate for a drop of water. She just does her best to cling onto him.

“No one,” Clarke agrees, panting for breath. “Just you.”

His mouth claims hers, biting at her bottom lip hard enough to sting. “You’re _mine_ ,” Bellamy growls and the sound is a hot shock straight to her cunt. “Say it.”

She can feel her body already tightening up, a coil of tension ready to snap in her core. Fuck. She’s going to come just from this, the penetration and possessive snap of his voice around her. Her orgasm swelling makes it near impossible to speak.

“Yours,” Clarke manages to gasp out, writhing against the door. Sweat is sticking to her lower back, slicking her skin. “I’m yours!”

He doesn’t know how true the words are. Not just said in the heat of sex. It isn’t just her body that belongs to him now. She is his. He has her heart locked in his fist and he is blissfully unaware of the power he wields. Clarke would say anything, do anything for him.

He groans into her neck, low and primal, hips snapping harder. Like that, her orgasm is seconds away from bursting through her. “Bell, I’m gonna come.”

“Yeah you are. Come on my cock,” Bellamy orders into her ear, squeezing her waist, sure to leave bruises behind. “Scream for me. Let everyone know who owns this tight little pussy.”  

Her toes curl in her heels and with a loud cry, Clarke is coming hard, her release reverberating in deep waves through her body. Bliss takes the place of her pounding desire and she’s melted, boneless, as Bellamy keeps thrusting in her twitching cunt before he comes inside her.

He slumps against her, as spent as she is. The sudden silence of the restroom is deafening with only their heavy breathing.

He releases her wrist and Clarke folds her arms around him, holding him close in their afterglow. She breathes him in, an earthy scent mixed with sweat and her heartbeat slows.

Too soon, Bellamy shifts out of her arms and pulls out. Clarke can feel his seed’s warmth between her legs and it’s odd, different.

He hands her a wad of paper towels and she fights a blush as she cleans herself up. There is a shift in mood compared to the way they were clawing at each other, a distance that Clarke can’t find the source of.

Bellamy tucks himself away and straightens out his rumpled clothing. Avoiding her eyes, he says, “I’ll get the car from the valet. Meet you outside.”

Clarke frowns, saying nothing as he unlocks the door and exits the restroom. His mood swings are giving her whiplash tonight.

She heads over to the sink to fix her appearance, running her fingers through her tousled hair and wiping away her smudged lipstick. Not that it helps much. There’s a noticeable hickey on her throat and a telltale pink flush to her cheeks. She looks freshly fucked.

Bellamy is standing at the curb in front of the restaurant, his hands deep in his pants pockets. Clarke studies him as she approaches, grimacing to herself. He was all for joking and coming up with outlandish backstories earlier. Now, she considers the tautness of his jaw.

It puzzles her as they climb into his Jeep. Sex usually puts Bellamy in a good mood. Playful, even sweet. But it’s like he shut down as soon as they were finished. Clarke doesn’t understand and tries not to be offended, wondering if it’s something she did.

They’re on the road, stopped at a red light when Clarke breaks the silence. “I’m sorry I had to ditch you in there.”

“It’s fine,” he says, terse. “I know you had to schmooze Diyoza.”

Her eyes linger on the side of his face, the ticking muscle in his jaw. “Is it?” She challenges. “Then why are you pissed, Bellamy?” 

Bellamy’s hands tighten on the steering wheel. “It’s nothing, Clarke.”

She scoffs. “It’s not _nothing_. You drag me into the bathroom to ravage me like a caveman and now you won’t speak? What happened? _Talk_ to me,” she presses.

The silence lasts so long Clarke is resigning herself to being ignored. Then, at last, he answers her quietly. “Your ‘boss’ is a real piece of work.”

Her lips purse. Is he really this worked up about Roan’s arrogance? Clarke thought Bellamy lived for stupid male posturing like that. He and Murphy do that practically every night. Though, she isn’t surprised the two men rubbed each other the wrong way.

“Roan is…Roan. He’s an acquired taste.”

As soon as the words fall out, Clarke cringes. She hears what they imply and as expected, the temperature drops in the car by a few degrees. Somehow, she’s made this worse.

His head turns to look at her, his eyes narrowed. “ _Have_ you?”

Clarke’s chin juts out stubbornly. This is going to brew into a fight, she can feel it in her bones. But it’s like a boulder rolling downhill, already set in motion. Clarke can do nothing to stop it, stuck in her predetermined role.

“Have I what?” She demands.

Bellamy shakes his head. “Don’t play stupid, Clarke. Have you slept with him?”

Her pause lasts too long. Clarke hesitates, torn between answering “ _so what if I have”_ and lying to him. It’s their rule not to lie to each other, even it causes a fight just like this.

A horn blasts behind them. Their car is still stopped at the green light. Bellamy swears under his breath and takes his foot off the brake. Clarke sits with her arms crossed, simmering, as he swings the car into an empty lot and throws it into park.

She can’t remember the last time she was angry like this at him. It’s possible she hasn’t been, until now. But her heart is thrashing with it. His pissy attitude is getting under her skin. How dare he judge her for sleeping with her boss?

Or maybe his annoyance stems from him simply not liking Roan, just he like didn’t like Finn. Well, that’s too bad. Clarke isn’t looking for his approval. And he’s the last person that could judge her by the notches on her bedpost.

“Look,” Clarke starts, feeling prickly and defensive now. “This happened _seven months_ ago. Before I got serious with Finn. Maybe it was stupid because he’s my boss, but we agreed to never bring it up again. I can’t believe you’re holding this against me!”

“I’m not,” Bellamy says lowly. A sharp contrast to her raised voice.

“Really?” Clarke bites. “Then what’s the problem, Bellamy?”

His head drops back against the seat. With his eyes closed, he admits, “I’m an asshole. But I’m not judging you. That’s not it, okay?”

She doesn’t understand. Clarke waits, her arms still tightly crossed.

Bellamy rummages his fingers through his curls. His frustration is tight across his face and she realizes it’s aimed at himself, not her. “I didn’t like the way he was touching you, but that’s _my_ problem. Not yours. You don’t owe me anything. I know that.”

Clarke’s eyes widen. He’s jealous?

The thought of him being spiteful towards Roan makes more sense. She’s already told him that she isn’t interested in anyone else. Clarke knows he believes her, just like she does for him. Why should he care about some one-night-stand months ago or her friend touching her at a work event?

Unless. She thinks of her petty jealousy toward Echo, a woman she hasn’t even met. Clarke hates picturing her in _their_ apartment, let alone touching Bellamy. It’s possible Bellamy feels that way towards Roan, just for sleeping with her.

Although Clarke understands that, intellectually, her bafflement doesn’t change.

 _Just sex, no strings, no feelings._ That's what they agreed on, the boundaries that _he_ set. Bellamy’s made himself clear from the start. 

Can she let herself hope that things are different for him too? Or is he just possessive of her body? 

And there’s that word again. Problem. Her anger at Bellamy is fading, but there’s still a tumultuous sea of frustration and confusion inside her. What _do_ they owe each other? What are they doing?

Her arms drop as she turns to him. It pours out of her, leaking from the flood of emotions inside her, so full they have no choice but to burst free. “I can’t keep doing this, Bell. Pretending like that’s the truth. You don’t owe me anything, I don’t owe you anything. It’s _bullshit_.”  

Bellamy stills, his eyes widening at her outburst. For a moment, she thinks he stops breathing. “What are you saying?”

“I don’t know!” Clarke exclaims, rubbing at the bridge of her nose. “I’m saying, I’m sick of acting like it doesn’t bother me when Gina flirts with you. It does. And maybe it’s okay if you’re bothered by Roan, even if there’s nothing going on. We’re human. We have feelings.”

Bellamy is quiet for a minute, his mouth falling open and closing while he gathers his thoughts. His eyes fall to his hands clenched in his lap. Her pulse is running wild and Clarke wilts in the silence between them, terrified that she has shown too much.

He doesn’t want this. This outpour of feelings from her. Clarke thinks of Echo in this same spot and wishes she could take it back, stuff the words back down her throat. She’ll drown in them. She’ll take it if it means not losing what she has with Bellamy.

He licks his lip, takes a breath. “Clarke—”

His phone rings. The chiming makes her jump. Regret flashes over his face as he digs his phone out of his pocket and peers at the screen. Then his eyes widen. His shaken expression sends a chill right through her.

“What?”

“It’s Octavia,” he whispers. His eyes dart up to her and her heart breaks a little at how lost they look, how torn. “I don’t know…”

“It’s okay,” Clarke murmurs. She reaches across the console to take his hand in hers. “It’s okay to answer it.”

His thumb slides to answer the call before he misses it. His voice is a rasp. “O?”

His fingers clutch hers tightly as he listens to what his sister is saying on the other line.

“I don’t know,” Bellamy says at last. “I’ll have to think about it, okay?” She says something in reply and his jaw pops. “Bye.”

Clarke waits as he hangs up and tosses his phone down. “She wants to talk in person,” he explains slowly like he can’t believe it himself. “She sounds…different.”

“Different?” she prompts.

“Lighter, I guess,” Bellamy says, scrubbing at his eyes. “I mean, the last time I heard her voice she basically told me she wished I had died instead of her fiancé, so.”

Clarke flinches. “Christ, Bellamy.”

“She was angry.” He stares out at the black, empty lot in front of him, sucked away into the past. His tone is bleak, haunted by what happened then. “ _Broken_. Losing Lincoln, it just…destroyed her. But I couldn’t let her destroy herself. She’s my sister, I had to try to help, but she didn’t want that. I was alive and he wasn’t and that’s all that she could see when she looked at me.”

“Bellamy.” Her voice cracks and she tries to speak through it because this is important. “That isn’t your fault. It’s _no one’s_ fault.”

He clenches his eyes closed, but the tears still trickle down his face. His breathing is harsh, ragged. Talking to Octavia seems to have ripped something open inside him, something raw that never healed properly. Clarke has her doubts that he’s ever spoken about this before.

His teeth are gritted, struggling to shove the tattered parts of himself back together, but he can’t. The wound that has been neglected for a year demands to be felt now.

Clarke can’t stand it, watching him in pain. She unbuckles her seatbelt and leans over to reach him, ignoring the console digging uncomfortably into her stomach. Her arms wrap around his neck.

Bellamy just sits there a moment, not moving, before he breaks, crumples against her. She feels his wet face pressed to her neck, his hands clutching her back. His shoulders tremble with quiet cries.

At that moment, Clarke hates the universe for letting this happen. For taking Aurora Blake away and leaving her children to fend for themselves. For making Bellamy the sole bearer of his sister’s sickness and heartache and hatred. It’s too much for one soul to carry.

Time passes without her noticing how long Bellamy cries in her arms. Her fingers card through his hair as she holds him, lets him bleed out the pain he’s had festering for so long. Unburdening his heavy heart.

She feels him shift, getting ready to pull away and lays a brief kiss on his temple as they untangle themselves. His liquid eyes shine at her, but there’s tender gratitude there that takes her breath away. He doesn’t have to say anything. Clarke feels it.

She gives Bellamy a minute to wipe at his damp cheeks and sniffle. Gradually, his breathing evens out instead of rattles. “I’ve never told anyone that before,” he says hoarsely.

“I’m so sorry, Bell,” Clarke whispers. “I’m sorry she took it out on you. I’m sorry you lost her.” Because she knows that hurts Bellamy deeper than any wound his sister could inflict on him. Losing her, the most important person in his life.

“I thought I did.” He shakes his head, still unsettled by the phone call. “She reached out before, a bit. Some emails. Just telling me where she lived, some anecdotes from therapy. We never talked about the last time I saw her.”

Clarke cups the side of his face. “She may have hated you, for a little while, but I don’t think she does anymore.”

“No,” Bellamy agrees softly. “I don’t think she does.”

“What do you want to do?”

“I don’t know,” he confesses, his eyes closing briefly, eyebrows scrunching. “It was good to hear her voice again.”

“It’s your choice,” she tells him, “if you want to see her. You can say no if it hurts you too much. That’s okay, Bell.”

Bellamy sniffles and gently places his hand over hers, on his face. “I know. I just—I miss her, Clarke. I miss who she used to be. I’m afraid that person is gone forever.”

“She might not be,” Clarke offers. “You can find out if you’re ready to see her. Do you still want her in your life?”

She sees the storm of old hurt and nostalgia and love in his eyes, twisting around each other. But he’s steady, certain, when he says, “Yeah, I do. I need to know if she’s really better.” 

Clarke gives him a smile she hopes is reassuring. “You didn’t abandon her. I know it feels like that, but she needed this. Time and space to heal. She needed to be able to build herself up from what she lost. And that’s something we can only give ourselves.”

Bellamy’s deep brown eyes search hers, picking out the truth she didn’t realize she had been speaking. “You really believe that? About your mom?”

“Yes,” Clarke admits, as tears fill her eyes. “It hurt to leave her. It still does. I feel like I’m being selfish. But somehow, it helped. It was _her_ choice to get sober. I couldn’t force it to happen. I told her she needed to change and I walked away so she _could_.

I think it was better for my mom to see she could do it on her own, that even if she lost my dad and I wasn’t there, she could be strong for herself.”

He takes in her words, nodding to himself. “Octavia’s strong. She always has been. I hoped she could get through her grief, one day and we be a family again.”

She nods at his phone in the cupholder. “It sounds like she has.”

Bellamy’s mouth forms a tentative smile. She sees a trace of that hope lighting up the past that has haunted him and it’s beautiful. “Will you go with me?”

Clarke blinks in surprise. “Really?”

“Yeah,” he says. “I want you guys to meet. And it might be easier, you know, to have a buffer if things get ugly. Which they might.”

She’s overcome again with a different kind of wonder. Bellamy wants her to meet his sister. Clarke doesn’t have to think it over for another second. “Yes, of course.”

 

* * *

 

Murphy’s eyes carry relief when Clarke and Bellamy enter the kitchen. Raven sits across from him at the table, glaring at her phone and the atmosphere is thick with awkward tension before they disturb it.

“When are you two headed off to?” Murphy asks, crunching on his cereal.

Clarke glances at Bellamy, in the middle pouring coffee into a travel mug.  It’s his call if he wants to tell their roommates about their plans. Bellamy seals the lid and answers gruffly, “We’re meeting Octavia.”

Raven’s head snaps up to gape at him. She drops her phone onto the table. “Are you serious?”

“She called me,” Bellamy explains, his fingers fidgeting on the coffee maker. He’s been tightly wound all morning, restless, fiddling with his phone or his keys. “Said she wanted to talk in person about…everything.”

Raven lets out a scoff, dripping scorn. “And you said _yes_? Did you forget what happened the last time you two ‘talked’? Miller had to restrain her psycho ass from coming after you! Remember that?”

Bellamy flinches and Clarke steps toward him, laying a comforting hand on his rigid back. “Raven,” she says sharply. “It’s Bellamy’s choice, okay? She’s his sister. And people can change.”

Raven shakes her head, radiating disapproval as she picks up her phone and resumes scrolling. Murphy doesn’t say a word, his mouth tight, but he looks at Bellamy, still tensed with his back to them and then at Clarke. She reads the concern he doesn’t voice and Clarke gives him a small nod. She’ll look after Bellamy.

The first half-hour of the drive is uncomfortable. Bellamy is withdrawn and on edge, his teeth clenched, and his anxiety cloaks the inside of the car. Clarke itches to help him, but her attempts at drawing him into conversation are rebuffed, so she leaves him alone.

Then Clarke notices his nails are digging into his thigh, hard enough to be painful. She reaches for his hand, unfurling his tight fist, and holds it in hers. Her thumb strokes over his knuckle and eventually, his hand grips hers back, lets her ground him.

Halfway there, they stop for gas. As Bellamy fills up the tank, she unearths the business card that’s been burning a hole in her wallet for two days and stares at the print. 

“What’s that?” Bellamy asks, climbing back in the car.

Clarke startles. It’s the first words he’s spoken since they left the apartment. “Diyoza’s card. She gave it to me at the auction dinner.”

“She wants you to work for her?”

“Surprisingly, yes,” Clarke says, her lips quirking in amusement as she remembers the conversation. “She thinks I’m wasting my time at Azgeda and told me to send her my portfolio.”

Bellamy hums. His shoulders are still stiff, but he’s making an effort to talk now. Maybe he needs the distraction. “What does she do exactly?”

“Diyoza’s the owner of a few art galleries under Eligius.” Clarke runs her fingers over the glossy print of Diyoza’s office address. “She’s opening a gallery in Polis and offered to feature me in it if she likes my portfolio.”

Bellamy turns his head from the road to look at her, his voice getting a kick of excitement. “Clarke, that’s amazing! Did you send her your stuff yet?”

“No,” she admits. “I don’t know if I should. I have a job at Azgeda. A steady job that pays well. Am I going to leave that for a _chance_ that people like my art?” She shakes her head. “It’s a risk. And Nia would never take me back if I left.”

On the driver’s side, Bellamy taps his fingers on the steering wheel, thinking to himself before he speaks. “I think you should do it. Hear me out. Yeah, the pay’s good there, but you’re _miserable_ , Clarke. Always stressed out and Nia overworks you constantly. Now Diyoza’s giving you an opportunity to be an artist. Isn’t that what you want?”

Clarke sighs. “It’s not that simple. I can’t just let what I want get in the way of being _practical._ My art is a hobby that I love, sure. But it’s not worth the risk of trading what I already have. I just need to stick it out at Azgeda for a little longer, build up some contacts first.”

Bellamy shakes his head in disagreement. “Sometimes, you have to take a chance, Clarke. You’re passionate about art and you’re too damn good for that place. Leaving Azgeda could be the best thing for you.”

“Yeah?” Clarke asks, doubtful, but curious to hear his thoughts. “How so?”

“Getting out of your comfort zone. If you leave, you’ll have no choice but to work your ass off to make it. Don’t let your dream pass by because you’re too scared to chase after it.”

Her jaw locks. Sure, Bellamy paints a noble picture about chasing your dreams. But she knows the brutal statistics and the very low possibility of her becoming a successful artist just because she has passion.

A lot of people have passion, her mother included. But people like her and Diyoza and even Nia got to where they are by being smart, putting in the hard work even when they weren’t always happy doing it. You have to pay your dues first.

“What would your dad say about it?” Bellamy counters.

“He’s dead, Bellamy,” Clarke retorts, her voice cracking. “I don’t think he’d want his daughter to be a starving artist.”

Bellamy’s voice softens. “Maybe not. But I think he’d want his daughter to be happy. Doing something she’s proud of.”

Clarke falls silent, her arms stubbornly crossed. To herself, she has to admit he might have a point. She’s always had the guilty inkling that her dad would be disappointed by her working for a greedy corporation like Azgeda. Her dad believed in having integrity in everything you do.

And every time Abby turned her nose at Clarke’s “hobby” and told her she needs practical skills to survive in the real world, her dad defended her, encouraged her to pursue what she loved.

Bellamy lets those final words sink in and they’re both quiet the rest of the drive. Octavia lives about an hour away from them and they’re meeting her at a restaurant she suggested for lunch. A place with vegan-friendly options, which Octavia apparently is now.

They find Octavia first, sitting by herself at a round, wooden table. She’s beautiful, with the same dark hair as Bellamy and bright green eyes. Clarke can’t help but study her, curious about Bellamy’s baby sister.

She’s wearing a white tank top, her leather jacket hanging off the back of her chair, and has a tattoo on her collarbone in black script. _Lincoln._

Her face, free of make-up, lights up at the sight of Bellamy. Instantly, she looks younger, like a little girl instead of a young woman. “Big brother!”

Octavia jumps out of her chair, but Bellamy keeps his distance, looking wary. Beside him, Clarke can feel the fresh tension coiled in his muscles. “Hey, O.” He nods at her.

Octavia’s eyes dim with disappointment, but she nods back, seeming to understand. Her smile is shaky. “You look really good, Bell.”

Bellamy takes a sharp breath, his voice thick with layered emotions. “Yeah, you too.”

Her gaze falls on Clarke. “Who’s this?”

Clarke offers her a friendly smile. She hopes Octavia doesn’t mind her being there to support Bellamy. Before she can introduce herself, Bellamy says, “This is Clarke. My best friend.”

The Blake siblings sit down at the table. Clarke follows a step behind, still thrown. She’s thought of Bellamy the same way. He’s her closest friend, more than just her roommate or the guy she’s casually sleeping with. Hearing Bellamy say it too makes warmth curl up inside her like sitting next to the campfire on a cold night.

They order their drinks when the waiter stops by and then awkwardness descends on their table. Bellamy and Octavia are both avoiding eye contact, not knowing how to bridge the deep chasm between them.

Clarke’s heart aches for them. She can tell there is love between them, but it is lost under a mound of hurt and regret and sorrow, make harder over time.

Bellamy’s leg shakes under the table and she fears he’s going to get up and bolt any second. Clarke presses her knee to his and glances up at Octavia, who is tearing her napkin into pieces. “So, Octavia, what do you do for work?”

Some of Octavia’s discomfort dissipates as she talks, growing more animated. “I work as a paralegal at Brooke & Associates. We handle civil rights cases. Discrimination, equal treatment violations, that kind of thing.”

Clarke smiles. “That sounds great.”

Octavia nods eagerly. “Yeah, it’s really rewarding. I’ve always been passionate about justice. Going to law school wasn’t a possibility, so I started working there after I graduated. Some of the cases make you want to bash your head against the wall, but getting justice for our clients, even just an admittance of wrongdoing makes it worth it.”

They talk about Octavia’s conversion to veganism, which started with her late-fiancé, Lincoln. His mention brings a dark cloud over the table, which Clarke pushes through by asking her what vegan dishes she likes at this restaurant. They order their meals and at Octavia’s recommendation, Clarke gets the coconut burger.

It isn’t until after their food has arrived and they’ve started eating that Bellamy finally speaks up. “What did you want to tell me?”

Octavia freezes in the middle of chewing her salad. Slowly, she sets down her fork and her expression creases with pain. She glances up at her brother hesitantly like she’s waiting for a rejection. “Bell, I…I don’t know where to start.”

Bellamy glares down at his plate, his brows furrowed as he picks at his food, but he’s waiting, listening. He lets her drown in her uncertainty and gather herself out of it, taking a steadying breath before she begins.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry for _everything_. For taking my grief out on you. For saying…” Octavia falters for a moment, tears wetting her eyes. “Saying I wished you dead instead of _him_. I didn’t mean it, Bell. I hated the world then, for taking him away from me. But that wasn’t _your_ fault.”

The tears break free, spilling down her flushed cheeks. Bellamy’s head is bowed, but Clarke can hear his stuttered breathing.

“All you ever did was take care of me,” Octavia continues, rasping the words. “Ever since the day I was born. You raised me. It wasn’t fair, how Mom put it all on you, but you never complained. I didn’t deserve to have that. I _don’t_ , not after how I’ve acted.”

“O…” Bellamy whispers.

“Please, let me finish, okay?” Octavia pleads. “You did the right thing, walking away. I understand now why you couldn’t be around me. _I_ didn’t want to be around me. But I’ve spent the last thirteen months trying to heal, to become a person you could be proud of. I’m not asking for your forgiveness. I just need you to hear that I’m sorry and that I love you, big brother.”

Both of them are crying now. Clarke is tearing up as well, but she swallows it back. Silently, she pushes away from the table and heads to the restroom to give the siblings a moment of privacy.

Clarke peeks her head out after ten minutes. The two of them are deep in conversation. Bellamy is talking, gesturing and Octavia is listening. She doesn’t want to interrupt them. Clarke waits, messing around on her phone until Bellamy looks up from the table and catches her eye. He nods at her to come back.

It seems they have both spoken their peace. The mood is a bit lighter as they finish lunch, the air cleared and eyes dried. Octavia convinces them to try the vegan ice cream for dessert, which they all share.

“No mint chocolate chip?” Bellamy teases her.

Octavia laughs, her eyes sparkling at his joke. Clarke catches a glimpse of the little girl she used to be, looking at her older brother with stars shining in her eyes.

After leaving the restaurant, Bellamy demands to see what Octavia is driving now. She proudly shows them her sleek, black and red Ducati motorcycle and rolls her eyes at Bellamy’s questions about its safety, but answers them all.

Octavia hugs both of them goodbye. Her hug with Bellamy is slightly awkward with him patting her back, but they both look better than when they first saw each other.

“I’ll call you,” Octavia tells him and Bellamy gives her a small smile.

As soon as they’re seated in his jeep, Bellamy exhales with his whole body. Clarke smiles, rubbing his shoulder. “You did it. I’m proud of you, Bell.”

He nods, seemingly overwhelmed at the moment, his hands trembling as he plugs the key into the ignition. She doesn’t push, lets him put on music and process to himself for the drive. Clarke can see the lines of tiredness etched on his face, emotionally exhausted.

An hour later, they pull up in front of their apartment building and Bellamy parks in his usual spot. Clarke moves to climb out, only to be stopped by Bellamy’s hand on her arm. She turns back towards him expectantly.

His eyes rise slowly to meet hers. The look in them roots her to the spot, steals her breath at the open vulnerability and even a trace of fear. Goosebumps sweep down her arms as they gaze at each other and her heart starts to thud faster.

“Bellamy…” His name is an unfinished sentence, waiting for an answer.

His tongue darts out to lick his lips, preparing himself to speak. “Thank you,” he says at last, “for being here. You have no idea what it means to me, Clarke.”

She starts to brush him off. “It was nothing—”

“No,” Bellamy says firmly, not letting her look away. “It was _everything_.”

His gaze warms with affection. She can’t breathe. Then Bellamy cups her face and draws her into a slow, tender kiss, his thumb stroking her cheekbone. His touch makes her shiver. She kisses him back, her arms sliding around his neck and slipping her fingers into his thick curls.

A moan splits between them. Clarke is unsure of who it came from. They feel so intertwined in that moment. She can feel every wall she ever tried to keep up shattering under the force of Bellamy’s soft lips and tongue, unknowingly wrecking her with his vulnerability.

A line from a play she once read enters her mind: _A kiss may ruin a human life._

This might be the kiss that ruins her, ruins all future kisses for her from anyone that isn’t Bellamy. Because she feels it everywhere, buzzing behind her eyes, in her fingers and toes, filling her lungs with the sweetness of flowers and her world with vivid, beautiful color.

Her body trembles from the potency of it. She’s never experienced this when being kissed before, this giddiness, this love. With Bellamy, everything she feels is bigger, brighter, all-consuming. He makes her feel a lot, but happiness is always the loudest.

They break apart and she’s faced with Bellamy closeness, his forehead pressed against hers. Her exhale comes out shaky with emotion. It’s there, as clear and real as Bellamy in front of her.

 _I love you,_ Clarke realizes. _I’m in love with you, Bellamy_.

“Clarke,” he says her name in alarm. “You’re shaking.”

“I’m fine,” she gasps. No, she’s not. She’s fucked.

Bellamy frowns, worry plain in his eyes. “Come on. Let’s go inside, get you warmed up.”

 

* * *

 

Clarke wishes she could talk to Wells. There isn’t a day that goes by that she doesn’t think of her childhood best friend, taken from this world too soon. She still misses him, still has so many things she wants to tell him, would give anything to hear his voice again.

But now, lying on her bed, it’s truer than most days. Clarke longs to talk to him about Bellamy and ask what the hell she should do. This realization, this swollen feeling of love in her body, feels too big to deal with alone.

She’s lost. Wells would understand and listen to her woes. He’d never judge, never tell her she should have known better than to fall for her casual sex partner/best friend.

She can just hear him teasing her a bit. “Bellamy Blake? Really?” He’d want to meet Bellamy for himself, check out the so-called “man in her life”. But Wells would like him, in the end. Clarke knows he would.

She tries to imagine what his advice to her would be. How to get out of this fucked situation unscathed.

But her mind is blank and her heart is useless, screaming at her to go to Bellamy and confess her feelings immediately so he can admit his undying love in return and they can run off together, or something. Her heart is an idiot.

Clarke sighs. She needs to tell Raven everything. Come clean and hope her friend will take pity on her pathetic state.

After some more wallowing and stuffing her face with cookies, Clarke pushes herself out of bed and brushes the crumbs off of her. She’s wearing Bellamy’s hot pink hoodie that she stole from his room. The hoodie smells like him and Bellamy bought it in support of breast cancer, which took his mother from him. 

She slept like crap the night before and has only dragged herself out of bed for coffee and food. It's a struggle, but she manages to shuffle into the hallway. Clarke searches for Raven in her room first and finds it empty.

Downstairs is next. As soon as her feet hit the stairs, she hears the voices echoing from the kitchen. Loud, agitated. She turns the corner and runs into Raven and Murphy in a heated argument.

“Fuck you, Murphy!” Raven shouts. Her cheeks are flushed, her dark eyes snapping. “God, you’re the same selfish prick we all hated years ago! No wonder Emori dumped your ass. You only care about yourself!”

Murphy shrugs, plastering on a pained, humorless grin. “Hey, at least I’m consistent. You know no idea what the fuck you want, Reyes.”

“You want to know what I _want_?” Raven demands. “For you to leave me alone!”

Murphy nods, a sharp jerk of his chin. “Done.”

He storms out of the kitchen, brushing past Clarke, frozen there, without seeing her. The front door slams behind him. Cold silence follows in his wake. Warily, Clarke peeks into the kitchen and finds Raven standing there, her face buried in her hands.

Clarke approaches her in careful steps. “Are you okay?”

Raven flinches, her arms dropping to her sides. She glares at Clarke with red-rimmed eyes. “No, I’m not _fucking_ okay.”

Clarke nods. “Yeah, stupid question. Do you want to talk about it?”

“There’s nothing to talk about,” Raven spits. She tightens her ponytail with sharp, jerky movements and ignores the moisture gathering in her eyes. “I said some stupid things when I was drunk and Murphy won’t just drop it!”

Silently, Clarke retrieves two bottles of water from the fridge and moves to sit at the table. She holds her tongue, for now, and thankfully Raven doesn’t shut down on her. She huffs angrily as she joins her at the table, wrapping a tight grip around the bottle.

Clarke keeps her tone even, casual, as she sips at her water. “You mean at the campfire?”

Despite her earlier refusal, Raven seems to be in the mood to rant. “Yeah. We had a moment or whatever, but it’s over. I don’t know what the hell he wants from me.”

“He cares about you, Raven,” Clarke says softly, studying her reaction. “Maybe you should let him. Don’t fight it.”  

Her roommate lets out a bitter snort. “Maybe you should worry about your own screwed up situation and stay out of mine.”

Her brow furrows. “What are you—”

Raven’s eyes snap up to hers, blazing with furious fire. “I’m _talking_ about you chasing after Bellamy’s dick!”

Clarke reels back like she’s been slapped. Her eyes are wide, mouth gaping open as shock turns her mind into static. Raven knows about them. How long? And why hasn’t she said anything until now?

“Raven,” Clarke starts weakly.

Raven’s lip curls into a snarl. “Really, how _stupid_ do you think I am? You guys think you’re slick? Anyone can see how look at Bellamy like a cat in heat. And suddenly he’s stopped bringing home his groupies to bang every other night. For now, at least.

The  _for now_ stabs at Clarke's stomach, but Raven goes on, merciless in her righteous anger. "I’ve suspected something was going on for a while. I thought you’d at least have the balls to tell me about it instead of sneaking around but no.” She barks out a dark, humorless laugh. “No, I get to see the two of you making out in Bellamy’s car in front of our fucking building!”

She cringes at that, her eyes squeezing shut. _Shit_. Raven saw them herself days ago. And she’s just as angry as Clarke thought she’d be. Maybe more so, on top of her fight with Murphy.

Clarke scrambles for her voice like fumbling for the light switch in the dark. “We should have—”

“How long have you two been fucking?” Raven hisses at her. “And _lying_ to me about it?”

Shame twists a hot knife in her gut. Clarke forces the words out. “Since July.”

It’s worse with the flash of hurt in Raven’s eyes. “ _July_ ,” she repeats through her teeth. “Three and a half months. Wow, that’s longer than he was fucking Echo. You must be pretty proud of that.”

Raven seems to relish in making her cringe. The last thing Clarke needs is a reminder of their ex-roommate he slept with. The reminder that Bellamy has done this before.

“I’m _sorry_ , Raven,” Clarke says before she can cut her off. “Is that what you want from me? I’m sorry we kept it a secret and that hurt you. But honestly, our sex life isn’t everyone’s business!”

“It is if it’s happening under our roof!” She retorts hotly. “And this isn’t about everyone else, Clarke. _I_ asked you for one thing. Don’t get involved with Bellamy. Don’t create a mess that _I’m_ going to have to clean up again!”

Clarke feels her temper cracking. “This is different. The only person creating a mess in our apartment is _you_ with Murphy!”

Raven gives her a brittle smile. “You say that now. I’ve seen it before, Clarke. I was there when he broke Echo’s heart and moved on to another girl the next day. You’re saying it’s different? Tell me you’re not in love with him.”

She can’t. The lie won’t pass her teeth, even now when she needs it. Clarke has used up all of her pretending the past three months. And Raven can apparently see straight through her. It’s a disturbing thought.

Raven pushes up from the table, giving her one last, disappointed glance. The cold look pierces her chest. “I hope it was worth our friendship, Clarke. Don’t come crying to me when it goes to shit. And it _will_.”

She walks out of the kitchen. Clarke doesn’t hear her go upstairs or leave the apartment. She’s just left with the feeling of being completely alone. Ice lingers in her veins. She can’t help but think of her conversation with Bellamy what felt like a million years ago.

_“When we started hooking up, I told her upfront it was sex. Nothing else.  I wasn’t going to change my mind, but I guess she didn’t believe me.”_

Clarke isn’t sure what she believes. But her heart tells her it’s already too late to turn back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yikes. I hope y'all don't hate me. But feel free to yell in the comments haha. 
> 
> The quote that Clarke mentions is from "A Woman of No Importance" by Oscar Wilde.
> 
> Thanks for reading! Here's my [tumblr](http://www.kombellarke.tumblr.com)


	12. Clarke, Interrupted

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! My first week of grad school has been crazy, but thankfully I still have time to get this chapter up. 
> 
> Here's Angst Part II with a side of Murven 😉
> 
> For all the wonderful comments I've received, thank you so much. I promise I read every single one. I'll do my best to reply to you guys when things settle down for me. So much love ❤️
> 
> Enjoy!

 

* * *

 

The beginning of November is harsh, the cold weather unforgiving. The shifting leaves have fallen, leaving behind bare trees with skeletal branches and bleak grey skies. It suits the mood of their apartment.

Following his fight with Raven, Murphy becomes a recluse, holed up in his room. He only emerges to go to work or stare mindlessly at the television, occasionally hurtling a snippy comment at Clarke or Bellamy.

Raven isn’t speaking to any of them, her cold shoulder an impenetrable fortress. There are too many stony silences in their kitchen and living room. Bellamy seems content with letting her fume, while Clarke is wrapped in a chokehold of her own guilt.

She feels guilty for breaking Raven’s trust and responsible for meddling in her and Murphy’s relationship. She should have let them work it out amongst themselves and vows to stay out it from then on. Raven certainly doesn’t welcome her intrusion.

It’s been a long, miserable week.

Clarke slides a plate of grilled cheese toward Bellamy. “Your turn to feed the gremlin.”

Bellamy shakes his head, exasperated with Murphy’s behavior. “This is ridiculous. We’re not his room service.”

Clarke’s lips quirk. No, they’re not. But she is a concerned roommate. “He needs to eat, Bell. He’s been up there all day.”

Grimacing to himself, Bellamy shoves away from the kitchen table. “That’s it. I’ve had enough of this shit.”

He doesn’t take the plate with him when he stalks out of the room. Clarke hears his stomping footsteps on the stairs and feels uncertain if she should intervene. Maybe some tough love is what Murphy actually needs to shake him out of his funk.

Clarke goes back to eating her own BLT sandwich. Upstairs, there is the muffled, deep timbre of Bellamy’s voice and pauses for whatever Murphy is replying. Then a loud thump as something is thrown. Clarke winces, waiting for Bellamy’s reaction.

Silence. She has a brief moment to fear if one of them is incapacitated.

Then she hears a struggle of raised voices, hissing and banging into walls, which sounds similar to a cat being forced into a tub of water. In this case, it’s Murphy being hauled out of bed and dragged forcibly downstairs by Bellamy.

Clarke is impressed when Murphy stumbles into the kitchen, Bellamy herding him forward. His hair is greasy and in disarray, unwashed for a few days, and he’s only wearing boxers and mismatched socks, but he’s standing upright. It’s an improvement.

Angrily, Murphy flops into an empty seat and crosses his arms over his chest. He only glares at her through narrowed eyes when Clarke nudges his plate of grilled cheese towards him.

Bellamy takes his seat and resumes eating. “Don’t be a child,” he snaps at Murphy. “Eat your sandwich.”

“Shut up. You’re not my _real_ dad,” Murphy retorts.

Bellamy proceeds to give what can only be identified as a stern Dad Glare, staring Murphy down with one eyebrow cocked challengingly. It _really_ shouldn’t be doing it for her, but yeah, it is. Clarke is both amused and turned-on.

The two of them are locked in a stalemate until Murphy’s shoulders slump. He finally stops sulking and eats his first real meal of the day.

When he’s done, Bellamy gets up to rinse his plate in the sink. Behind Murphy’s back, he gestures sharply at Clarke. He did the hard part, getting the gremlin down here and now apparently it’s her turn to contribute.

In the quiet of the kitchen, Clarke rakes her brain for words of comfort or advice. At the moment, she has nothing. Raven wasn’t wrong about her. Clarke is caught in her own screwed situation and she doesn’t know how to dig herself out of it.

“Let’s go out tonight,” Clarke blurts, glancing at both of them. Bellamy’s eyebrows raise while Murphy just stares sullenly, chewing. “Drink, dance, break the tension.”

“I’m down for getting shit-faced,” Murphy drawls.

“You have to shower first,” Bellamy tells him unhelpfully.

Murphy responds by lifting his hand and flipping him off.

Clarke makes the plans since it was her idea. She informs their groupchat about going out to _Alpha_ , one of their favorite clubs. With the exception of Monty, who’s writing a research paper and Emori, who is going to a concert with Echo, the rest of their friends are on board.

That night she’s getting ready in the bathroom, applying some shimmery silver eyeshadow. Clarke feels the heat of someone’s gaze on her and looks up, finding Bellamy in the mirror’s reflection. He’s standing outside the open doorway, his eyes running across her bare shoulders and exposed back in her dress.

He comes up behind her, his hands claiming her hips, and drops a kiss onto the back of her neck. Clarke shivers down to her toes, her eyes fluttering at the light touch of his lips.

Just like that she’s electric, her body humming in his proximity. Pulse quickening.

“Leave your hair up,” Bellamy murmurs.

Clarke’s eyes open. “Hmm?”

He nods his chin at her reflection. She has her hair pinned up, kept out of her face to do her make-up. Bellamy smiles. “I like your hair up. Leave it.”

Her mouth curves too, warmth spilling into her cheeks at the way he’s gazing at her, holding her waist. In sweet moments like these, they don’t feel like just friends or fuck buddies. They feel like a couple. Like lovers.

Footsteps thud on the stairs. Raven reaches the landing and halts, spotting them in front of the bathroom’s sink. Her eyes harden and she shoots them a disgusted look before stomping away, her bedroom door slamming behind her.

Bellamy catches her hurt expression. “She’ll come around,” he assures her.

He steps away, leaving the restroom to get dressed for their night out. It’s not just Raven’s grudge that hurts her. It’s the constant reminder of why it exists in the first place. Raven’s warnings echo in her ears and dissolve the fleeting happiness Clarke was feeling in Bellamy’s arms.

_“Don’t come crying to me when it goes to shit. And it will.”_

Their foursome gets a reprieve from the awkwardness when they’re united with the rest of the group at the club. Raven’s angry mask breaks when she catches up with Harper and laughs with Jasper.

The drinks they order help lighten the mood and break down hostile defenses, which is what Clarke intended. She was also craving alcohol to get out of her own head. She and Bellamy never got the chance to finish their interrupted conversation in his car, before Octavia called.

Her mind keeps circling back to that moment, that pause. What was Bellamy going to say? She’s too afraid to broach the topic again. Afraid of his rejection, that it didn’t _mean_ anything. And even if it did, it doesn’t change things between them.

So he was jealous of Roan. Humans are possessive creatures. They’re hooking-up, no more, no less. Bellamy is still getting what he wants from her—her body, exclusively— and they’re best friends, close, but not a couple.

He doesn’t love her. Not like she adores him. He doesn’t feel what she does around him, the fluttering behind her ribs, a constant hum of _I love you_.

No, Bellamy doesn’t do feelings or relationships or commitment. Clarke is alone on this island, pathetically in love with him, all while seeing the tsunami in the distance. It’s headed towards her and she doesn’t know if it’s going to drown or somehow survive the wreckage if Bellamy learns the truth.

At _Alpha_ , Clarke drinks two appletinis and then tugs a reluctant Murphy out onto the dance floor. He stands there like a dead tree trunk as Clarke moves her body freely to the pulsing beat.

She huffs as his dead-possum act. He’s being impossible. Clarke grabs at his shoulders, forcing him to shake out his stiff muscles then slides her hands into his, placing them on her waist. She keeps them there as she dances.

Murphy doesn’t do much, still miserable, until a waitress sweeps through the crowd with a tray of colorful shots in neon glasses. He grabs a handful for each of them to drink. Under the flashing lights, Clarke can see Murphy’s eyes grow glassy, unfocused. He bypasses her buzz, truly drunk.

After the shots, Murphy dances with her for a while, a bit sloppily. Then Clarke trades off with Harper, letting Murphy twirl her as she shimmies in between Miller and Bellamy. They gather in a loose circle, Jasper bouncing on his toes with Maya, Raven dancing on her own, her loose hair fanning around her.

Later, Clarke heads to the bar for a bottle of water, her throat parched. As she’s waiting on the bartender, someone stumbles up next to her. It’s Murphy, barely holding himself up on his elbows.

He jabs a finger at her. “Hey, stop with the judgey face. I’ve seen _you_ white girl wasted.”

Clarke snorts. “And that wasn’t pretty either.”

She hasn’t gotten blackout drunk since the month after her dad died when she needed to numb her pain and grief before it killed her. It wasn’t healthy. Finn hadn’t stopped her, not bothered by how horny and uninhibited Clarke would get when she drank.

It only bugged him when she puked on his bedroom floor and passed out before they could have sex.

Clarke lingers at the bar when Murphy orders another drink. “How are you? Really?” She nudges his shoulder, going for a smirk. “I miss our little talks.”

Murphy mirrors her smirk at that. “I’m shitty, Clarke,” he says honestly, the alcohol loosening his tongue. “I’m so pissed at her I can hardly think straight.”

She says nothing, sipping at her water, letting him vent. He hasn’t said a word that isn’t sarcastic or snarling in a week. Clarke understands his hurt. She only heard a snippet of their fight and the insults Raven spewed in her anger.

“She rips my heart out,” he continues, slurring slightly. “Stomps on it. Calls it nothing. And I am still pathetically in love with her.”

In her buzzed wisdom, all Clarke has to say is, “Love is bullshit.”

Murphy raises his glass to salute her. “Love is bullshit,” he repeats.

He throws back his drink and Clarke sees the figure over his shoulder, standing still. Her vision is a bit blurred, but she makes out the metallic dress. Raven.

Her expression is open, stunned. Shiny lips parted. It seems like it takes her a minute to catch her breath, inhaling sharply. She really didn’t know.

Raven finally notices Clarke and their eyes meet. For a few seconds, there’s a ceasefire. Clarke shakes her head. Now it’s not the time to talk to him. Murphy is drunk and, truthfully, still furious with her. That conversation won’t end well.

Emotions flit over Raven’s face, as quick as the flashing club lights. A trace of regret, then understanding. Raven nods at her. She turns, disappearing back into the dance floor of cramped, swaying bodies.

 

* * *

 

The next day Raven comes to her, knocking tentatively on her bedroom door. Clarke is in the middle of folding and putting away laundry, music playing low in the background. She answers for whoever it is to come in.

Raven enters. She doesn’t look much better than Murphy these days. Heavy bags ring her eyes like she hasn’t been sleeping well. She shifts her weight, a sign of discomfort as her arms cross over her chest.

Clarke stops folding and takes a seat on the edge of her bed. Waiting.

Raven huffs through her nose. “I’m still pissed at you.”

Clarke nods. “Okay?”

“But,” she continues, grimacing as if this pains her, “I don’t know what to do. About Murphy.”

“Talk to him,” Clarke urges her. “I’d start with apologizing. You can only go up from there.”

“And then what?” Raven demands. “What do I _say_?”

“Well, what do you feel?”

A grunt of frustration escapes Raven as she uncrosses her arms and rubs at her tired, slightly puffy eyes. “I miss him. I can’t fucking sleep at night because of that stupid bastard.”

Clarke laughs, despite the tension still between them and Raven even smiles back, self-depreciating at her own misery.

Raven continues, “You know that saying, that you don’t realize how important something is until it’s gone?” She shrugs. “Well, I realized it.”

“Huh,” Clarke says, smiling. “It sounds like you know _exactly_ what to say to him.”

Her roommate falls silent. Clarke can tell by her expression, the gears turning behind her brown eyes, that Raven has some things to work out before she faces Murphy. She gives Clarke a small nod in thanks before she lets herself out of her room.

Clarke hopes this means the world war is over in their apartment.

Their group is out at the Dead Zone on Monday night, just hanging out and shooting the shit after work. Miller is regaling the table with one of his favorite stories from ROTC, with Harper interjecting to tone down his embellishments.

Bellamy is pressed to Clarke’s side, thigh-to-thigh, his arm slung over the back of the booth. The space between them is nonexistent, so she can feel the rumble in his chest every time he chuckles along. Often, his eyes drop to her face to catch her reaction to the story.

The only ones missing from the group are Raven and Murphy. Before they headed over here, Raven told Bellamy and Clarke to head out first, give them the space to talk in private. Clarke hopes it’s going well, for her friends’ sake and the peace in their lives.

A half-hour and another round of drinks later, the door to the Dead Zone opens, bringing in Raven and Murphy.

Immediately, Clarke notes the lack of hostility or tension between them. Murphy’s hand rests on Raven’s back as they walk over, squeezing into the table side by side.

Bellamy lowers his beer, cocking an eyebrow at Murphy. “All good?”

Raven is the one that answers, a smirk hidden in the corner of her mouth. “Yeah, yeah. Murphy and I kissed and made-up. We’re good.”

“Reyes was all over me,” Murphy boasts to the table.

Clarke smiles at the joke. They all do and relief blankets the table now that they’re no longer fighting. She’s glad to see Murphy’s mood brightened and Raven isn’t scowling at them. In fact, she appears almost giddy.

Raven exchanges a look with Murphy, a silent conversation passing between them. It’s like they’re in their own world, the rest of them forgotten. Then her smirk widens.

“Something like this,” Raven says before hauling Murphy in by his jacket and kissing him.

“Oh my god,” Clarke blurts, her jaw dropping. _Finally._

The rest of them form similar expressions and noises of shock. Harper recovers quickly, looking overjoyed and smug. Jasper lets out a wolf-whistle and Miller jokes about getting a room as Raven and Murphy make-out in front of them.

Eventually, they break apart for air and grin at each other. Murphy actually laughs, his forehead nudging Raven’s, and her fingers toy with the hair on the back of his neck. Her face is the closest Clarke has seen to _smitten_ on her, eyes soft.

“So,” Monty says, drawing out the word. “You guys are a thing now?” 

Murphy curls his arms around her shoulders and Raven turns to them, still smiling. “Looks like it.”

“Okay.” Harper slaps her palm on the table to get their attention. “We need the story. What the hell happened?”

“We talked, figured out shit out,” Murphy retorts, “and banged it out on the couch. End of story.”

“ _Our_ couch?” Bellamy clarifies, growing horrified. “Which we all use on a daily basis?”

“Yep,” Murphy confirms, proud and entirely unapologetic. “That couch has seen its fair share of ass, okay? It’s not innocent.”

“We need more details,” Harper exclaims, trying to get them back on track.

Raven and Murphy exchange another amused look before she starts, “Okay. Murphy’s dick is—”

She’s cut off by various shouts of protest and several of them shielding their ears, including Clarke. Harper screams those aren’t the details she’s after. The two of them just laugh at their aghast reactions.

“Wait a minute,” Miller says when they calm themselves, narrowing his eyes. “Don’t you guys have a rule about not hooking up with roommates?”

The four of them collectively freeze. Clarke feels her heart stop. Bellamy’s shoulder stiffens against hers. Murphy’s eyes drop to the table. Raven swallows, her throat bobbing, and they’re all quiet, waiting for her to answer.

She peers at Bellamy and Clarke, a fleeting glance that no one else might catch the meaning of. There’s still a flicker of anger, betrayal, behind that stare. Raven doesn’t forgive easily and she’s still upset about what happened with Echo, along with Clarke lying to her.

But now things have changed for all four of them. Raven has broken a rule herself and maybe she understands now, at least on some level, what Clarke has felt. Not powerless against her attraction, but giving into it and experiencing the sweet relief of her desires fulfilled.

“We did,” Raven answers at last, her jaw set. “But I’m axing that rule now. Unless one of you has any objections?”

Her pointed gaze flits to Clarke, Bellamy and then Murphy. It’s not quite absolution, not yet. It’s an olive branch and Clarke is going to take it gratefully. She nods and Bellamy holds his tongue, sipping at his beer.

Clarke offers a smile. “We’re happy for you.”

 

* * *

 

After leaving Azgeda, Clarke makes a pitstop at her favorite art supply store for some fresh paint. She’s inspired to work on a new project, maybe do some shopping while she’s at the mall.

The seasonal cheer is definitely getting to her. Clarke loves the holiday season and having the air cleared in their apartment relieves a lot of her stress and guilt. They’re doing a Friendsgiving dinner at the end of the month, hosted by Harper and Miller at their apartment.

Clarke is feeling thankful for good friends this year. She has people in her life that fill the void of her dad with warmth and laughter. The holidays might be hard, especially when she visits her mom, but Clarke knows she won’t have to be alone when the grief and nostalgia tugs painfully on her heart.

And she has Bellamy.

It’s enough to have him as her best friend. She can kiss him, touch him, enjoy his body. Their quiet afternoons together, him reading and her drawing, sipping hot chocolate, it’s enough. He makes her happy and she has so much of him. Why be greedy? Why risk losing him completely just to hear him say he loves her back?

She’s resolved herself to be thankful for his prescence in her life. For the warm glow she feels whenever Bellamy gives her a smile she likes to believe is just for her or talks about his day with his students, almost too fast to understand in his excitement to share with her. Clarke is lucky to have him, any part that she can call hers.

She picks up her paint and window-shops at the stores for a while before going home, changing into her worn University of Arkadia sweatshirt and leggings. Clarke plugs in her earphones and sings along to the music while she paints.

“ _If you say run, I’ll run with you. And if you say hide, we’ll hide_.”

She drags a line of blue across the canvas, her hips swaying and head bopping to the upbeat notes. Clarke twirls on her toes, getting lost in the song and belts along, “ _Because my love for you would break my heart in two…_ ”

Her eyes open to re-dip her brush in the paint. She turns and that’s when she notices her audience behind her. Bellamy is leaning against the doorway, mouth curved up and eyes crinkled with fondness as he watches her.

Clarke almost jumps out of her skin. “Oh my god. Bellamy!”

He’s grinning widely when she pulls out her earphones, not the least bit abashed that she caught him. “Hey, Princess.”

A hot blush stains her cheeks. Bellamy has seen her dance at clubs plenty of times, but dancing in her room and singing to David Bowie like no one is watching her is different.

“Um.” She clears her throat. “What’s up?”

Bellamy steps into the room, letting the door fall shut. His amusement is tucked away, his dark brows furrowing. “Can I talk to you about something?”

He sounds serious. For some reason, Clarke’s pulse starts drumming faster. “Sure.”

She sets down the brush, closing up the paint and turns to give him her full attention. Waiting as Bellamy tugs a hand through his curls and the silence builds between them.

He lets out a nervous laugh. “Shit.”

That sets off Clarke’s anxiety. Bellamy is never nervous. She can feel her pulse beating hard in her throat. “Is everything okay?” She asks him.

“Yeah.” Bellamy tries to smile reassuringly. His hands are restless, wringing together before he curls them up and takes a breath. “Clarke, I…I know when we started this, we said—”

Her phone rings on the nightstand, a shrill noise that cuts him off and startles both of them. “Sorry,” Clarke says, wincing.

She grabs her phone, meaning to silence it. This seems like an important conversation. But on the screen Clarke recognizes the number of Arkadia Memorial Hospital.

Her stomach drops through the floor. Why is the hospital calling her?

Clarke shoots Bellamy an apologetic glance. “Sorry. I have to take this.”

He nods, shoving his hands into his hoodie’s pockets.

She slides to accept the call and is answered by a familiar voice. “Hello, Clarke? This is Dr. Eric Jackson.”

Déjà vu sweeps over her in a dizzying wave. Clarke’s fingers clench around the phone. _Don’t say it_. She wants to hang-up before the words come out of his mouth.

“Hi, Jackson.” Her voice rasps, too dry. “What—what is it?”

A tense pause. Clarke’s teeth are grit, braced for the impact she knows is coming.

But it doesn’t help at all when Jackson says, “Your mother is here. She was brought in by the paramedics. The housekeeper found her unconscious this morning.”

Each piece of the story he explains hits her like falling shrapnel, slicing at her skin. _Overdose. Relapse. Stomach pumped. Surgery. Still unconscious._

“Clarke? Clarke, are you still there?”

Her knees are wobbling. She has no idea what’s keeping her from collapsing to the ground. The force of gravity maybe.

Tears blur her version and the frantic voice on the other line becomes inaudible, an insidious hissing that she has to block out.

Then the phone is suddenly taken away. “Look, Clarke can’t talk right now,” Bellamy barks. “She’ll call you back.”

A gentle touch on the side of her face. “ _Clarke_ ,” he murmurs into her ear. “Babe.”

Bellamy turns her chin up to look at him with careful fingers. Those warm brown eyes draw her back, anchor her to solid ground while her world is splintering apart. She realizes Bellamy’s arm locked around her waist is also the only force holding her up.

His thumb swipes away the tear that drips down her cheek. Her lips tremble and Clarke fears she won’t be able to speak at all, but somehow she does. “My mom’s in the hospital. Overdose.”

Bellamy inhales sharply, understanding and sympathy flooding his soft gaze. It’s too much.

All Clarke wants to do right then is crumple into his arms. He won’t let her fall. She longs to burrow into his solid chest, where it’s safe, feel his arms holding her like he can protect her from this.

A scream rises in her throat and Clarke is unsure if she will cry or yell herself hoarse if she unlocks her lips, bolted shut. 

But she can’t. If Clarke lets herself break now, she won’t get back up. She has to push forward. Her mom needs her.

Clarke steps away, away from his comfort and warmth. She forces her tears back and locks her jaw. The fragments of her are wobbly, a fragile deck of cards. She’s a breath away from collapsing in on herself, but it has to do.

“I have to go,” she says. “I have to fly to Arkadia, as soon as possible.”

Bellamy nods. “Of course. I’ll drive you to the airport.”

Clarke agrees only because it’ll be faster and simpler than getting a driver. A numb haze shrouds her as she purchases the first available tickets she can find online and quickly packs a bag. Clarke focuses on each task in front of her, her mind occupied and her tumultuous emotions packed tightly away, out of sight.

She’s quiet on the drive to the airport. Clarke thinks she says goodbye to Bellamy and tells him he doesn’t have to come in with her, but those hours after the phone call are a blur. She blinks and the plane is taking off into the clouds.

Was it only this afternoon that she was driving to the art supply store and dancing in her room? Already it feels like a lifetime ago. Her carefree mood is a relic of the past.

Flying through the sky with no distractions and nothing but time on her hands, Clarke’s numb façade doesn’t hold. She feels sick to her stomach with guilt.

This is all her fault. She never should have left her mom alone in that empty house. Abby needed support, she needed her _family_ and Clarke was across the country, blindly living her own life. She should have been there during Abby’s recovery and struggle to stay sober.

When the flight lands, Clarke leaves a voicemail at the Arkadia office that she’ll be gone on a family emergency.

She takes her carry-on bag off the plane and gets a cab to drive her straight to the hospital. She’s been awake for twenty hours at this point and has to push back at her body’s exhaustion.

Walking into the hospital is a living nightmare, one Clarke has faced before on a dark day months ago. She doesn’t want to be here. She never wanted to set foot in this place again after her dad’s accident. A small, selfish part of her _resents_ Abby for making her return here twice now.

The memories pull at her like cold phantom hands. Clarke fights to look at Jackson’s distraught face hovering in front of her mother’s hospital room. Tears sting her eyes again and she has to swallow back the sob in her throat.

Is she crying for her mother’s situation or her father’s death? Clarke can’t tell. Her sorrow and grief are too heavy to pick through, weighing her down like a powerful current of ocean waves. They threaten to suck her under.

“Clarke.” Jackson exhales in relief. He pulls her into a hug that she doesn’t let go on too long. “I’m so sorry I had to—”

Clarke waves him off, sniffling. “No. Thank you for calling me. And for being her with her when I couldn’t.”

He smiles sadly. “Of course. Well, she’s still out from the surgery, but you can go in. I have to round my patients. I’ll be back soon.”

Clarke stands alone in the hallway for a while, hands clutching her elbows, staring at the door. The memories are looming, cropping up unbidden from where she buried them. She remembers standing outside a room that looked just like this months ago.

Except then, it was a nurse she didn’t know that told her her dad was already gone. They did everything they could for him, but he didn’t survive the emergency surgery.

She hears the echoes of Abby’s anguished cries. She demanded the doctors save him, bring him back, while Jackson tried and failed to soothe her. Clarke was numb then too, unable to take a step forward. It was safer when time stood still.

The knob is cold when she turns it. Clarke lets herself into the room. She’s been here before, faced down a similar horror, but it doesn’t prepare her for this one. Clarke keeps herself upright by clutching the bed’s frame.

Her eyes burn. The tears that fall are hot with the anger she feels heating her blood. At her mother. At herself. At everything. “How _could_ you?”

Her mother doesn’t respond. Her eyes are shut, her eyelids almost translucent. She’s hooked up to machines that monitor her breathing and heart rate. The anesthesia hasn’t worn off and Clarke knows Abby most likely can’t hear her.

She might as well be alone in this room. Clarke feels like an orphan even if the monitors say her mom is still alive. She lost her dad. She lost Wells. The only thing keeping her from being without family in this world is a handful of pills down Abby’s throat.

So Clarke yells. She opens her mouth and a fury unleashes until her throat is sore. Her own resentment surprises her, but there it is. The words she yells are cruel and unfair.

How dare Abby make her go through this again? How could she be so careless with her life? Did she not care about her at all? Did she love her pills more than Clarke? Was her life not worth having, when people like Jake Griffin and Wells Jaha lost theirs?

There are no answers. Clarke doesn’t feel better, but she’s tired enough to fall asleep in the chair against the wall.

 

* * *

 

The sound of wheezing wakes her up. Clarke’s eyes blink against the harsh fluorescent lights. She uncurls her stiff, aching body and looks around, registering the hospital room. It comes back gradually. Arkadia. Dr. Jackson’s call. Her mom.

Abby is awake, barely, in the bed. Relief courses through Clarke, untightens the knot in her chest. She’s coughing and Clarke jumps up to retrieve the cup of water beside her bed. Carefully, she lowers it to Abby’s dry mouth and helps her drink it.

Her mom drains the cup. “Thank you, sweetheart,” she whispers.

Clarke says nothing, setting the glass down harder than necessary. Her relief is short-lived, swiftly chased away by the anger rekindling in her veins. A hot rush that roars louder than her guilt and sorrow.  

She leaves her mother alone for a minute, disappearing into the private restroom with her bag. She brushes her teeth in the sink and attempts to comb out her knotted hair, throwing it into a messy braid. A shower will have to wait, but she changes into fresh clothes.

Her dad’s watch reads 7 am. Clarke needs coffee if she’s going to function, let alone deal with her mother.

Abby is sitting up in the bed when Clarke emerges. She’s pale, her hair a mess and lips dry, cracked. Her expression crumples with shame. “Clarke, I’m so sorry.”

Clarke ignores that, for now. “Are you hungry? Do you want coffee? I’m going to the cafeteria.”

Her mother’s eyes are liquid, pained. “Honey, please.”  

Clarke shakes her head. “I don’t want to talk right now. Do you want something or not?”

Abby tells her no. Clarke retrieves her wallet from her bag and exits the room, a purposeful stride to her steps. Coffee. Breakfast. A small comfort to have a task to focus on.

She’ll have to talk to her mother’s doctors as well. Clarke is going to be present for Abby’s recovery and she’s getting her mom into rehab whether she likes it or not. Clarke won’t lose her to this. She _can’t_.

She’s charging past the nurses’ station when she sees him. Bellamy.

He’s walking through the doors to the wing, as if her heart conjured him here. Looking around through his square-framed glasses, a day’s worth of stubble on his cheeks and chin.

He looks soft and tired, edges worn, exactly like he caught the red eye flight to be here.

Her feet carry her forward and it’s like she’s flying, hurtling herself at top speed into his arms. It catches him off guard, sends him back a step, but he hugs her back tightly.

Clarke presses her face into his chest, inhaling his familiar scent. That’s what breaks her. She didn’t even realize she how _much_ needs him until he’s here.

But now he is and Clarke starts sobbing into his sweatshirt, big gasping cries that hurt her throat and somehow feel good to let out.

Arkadia isn’t home. It never will be again. _Home_ is Bellamy’s scent wrapped around her, his steady heartbeat against her cheek, and his strong hands cradling her back.

“Clarke.” He sighs against her hair, his voice thick with pain. Like it hurts _him_ to see her so upset. “I’m sorry, babe.”

She cries until her shaking stops. Her breathing is still ragged as she steps back, swiping at her wet cheeks and peers up at him. “Bell, what are you doing here?”

“I’m here for you,” he murmurs, tucking a strand of hair that escaped her braid behind her ear. “You don’t have to do this alone.”

Clarke shakes her head, too overwhelmed to speak. Bellamy flew to Arkadia for _her_. She doesn’t deserve him. If it’s even possible, she loves him more.

His hand still stroking her back, Bellamy glances over her head toward the hospital rooms. Carefully, he asks, “How’s your mom doing?”

“She’s awake,” Clarke says, hoarse from crying. “I haven’t talked to her doctors yet. I was just going to get breakfast.”

Bellamy nods. “Okay. Let’s go.”

Everything feels surreal, like she has wondered from a nightmare into a strange dream. She can’t believe Bellamy is here with her. He keeps his arm tucked around her as they walk to the hospital’s cafeteria on the first floor.

Clarke isn’t actually hungry, but she lets Bellamy pick up strawberries and yogurt for her—her favorites. The gesture alone almost sends her into tears again. Her emotions are a mess, seeping out of her pores.

They have breakfast at one of the small tables and drink their coffee in silence. Clarke is content with watching the other people bustling through the cafeteria, existing outside of herself for a little while.

She feels Bellamy’s concerned gaze on her face, but he doesn’t meet it. His eyes unravel her. Clarke will break down again if she looks at him, so she doesn’t. It’s comforting enough to have him here, his knees touching hers under the table.

Reluctantly, Clarke returns to Abby’s room with Bellamy. They stand aside while the nurse checks her mother’s vital signs and asks questions about her post-surgery status. Abby answers all of her questions with her eyes lowered, shame swathing her like a cloak.

The nurse says the doctor will be in shortly to discuss her case and leaves them alone.

Clarke clears her throat and waits for Abby to glance at them, still pale and sweating now. “Mom, this is Bellamy Blake.”

Her mother stares. It takes her a minute before a trace of a smile touches her lips. “Your roommate. Hi, Bellamy.”

Bellamy nods at her, stiffly standing beside Clarke. “It’s nice to meet you, ma’am.”

The back of her throat squeezes painfully. It shouldn’t be like this. The sterile air in the hospital room is clouded by sadness. Bellamy shouldn’t be meeting her parents under these circumstances. Without her dad, with her mom recovering from overdose. It’s all _wrong_.

Clarke takes a seat by the small window. Bellamy occupies the other chair, dropping the backpack he brought with him onto the floor. She eyes the bag as he sifts through it, seeing the change of clothes he packed.

Her brow creases with concern. “Bell, what about your work?”

“Don’t worry about that,” he replies easily. “I took a couple days off.”

Clarke shakes her head. “That’s not necessary. You don’t have to stay—”

His sharp look shuts her up. “I know that. I’m here because I want to be.”

Bellamy unearths a paperback book from the bag. The one she left behind on her dresser. He hands it to her and Clarke takes it, both grateful and awed by his thoughtfulness.

They entertain themselves for an hour, waiting on the doctor’s arrival. Clarke and Bellamy read while her mother stares at the television screen by her bed, numbly watching Lifetime movies.

Clarke tries to ignore her mother showing symptoms of withdrawal, but it’s impossible not to see her both sweating and trembling with chills.

Dr. Lawrence arrives and introduces himself to Clarke. While he’s in the room, Bellamy steps out to give them space and privacy to speak.

The doctor claims Abby is doing well post-op. He’s a stern, humorless man and states without sympathy that Abby is going to experience the pains of withdrawal over the next five days or more.

Before he leaves Dr. Lawrence says, “In these cases, a psychiatric evaluation is necessary.” His cold grey eyes find Clarke. “Someone from that department will be in to discuss the evaluation and rehabilitation process with you.”

Her mother was silent during the doctor’s check-up, but she speaks as soon as he’s gone.

“Clarke,” she pleads. “Can we talk alone for a moment?”

She crosses her arms, her jaw taut. “What?”

Abby’s eyes are already reddened, but now they spill over with tears. “I’m _sorry_. I’m so ashamed that you have to see me like this. I know it isn’t fair.”

“Fair?” Clarke scoffs. “No, Mom. It isn’t. And an apology isn’t going to make this better. I don’t want to hear it right now.”

Her eyes close, shoulders shaking. “I know.”

“You _don’t_ ,” Clarke snaps. “You don’t know what is was like getting that phone call again. I thought you were dead!”

Abby’s sobs fill the room. As angry as she is, it’s only skin-deep. The sound of her mother’s cries twist her insides with a harsh fist.

 _Her fault,_ the thought repeats. _Her fault._

The housekeeper had to find her body because Clarke wasn’t there. She left Abby alone while she was lonely and grieving and for what? Just so Clarke could return to her cushy life in Polis. To brunches with her friends and carefree dancing in night clubs and Bellamy’s hands on her skin.

Her dad would be so disappointed in her. Clarke isn’t as furious at her mom as she is with herself. This wouldn’t have happened if she stayed in Arkadia. But she ran away.

“It was an accident,” Abby whispers. “I wasn’t trying to _die_. Please, Clarke. You have to know that.”

Clarke blinks her tears away. “I believe you.”

Relief flashes through her mom’s sad eyes briefly. “My addiction is…out-of-control. I see that now. I thought I could handle it on my own. I didn’t want to burden you. I _never_ meant for you to clean up my mess, Clarke.”

“It’s not a burden,” she rushes to say. “You’re my family. Family takes care of each other.” Clarke sucks in a breath. “I’m sorry, Mom. I told you I would be here for you, but I haven’t been.”

“No.” Abby shakes her head. “Don’t apologize. This is on me. Not you.”

She doesn’t agree, but there’s a knock on the door before Clarke can argue. Someone from psych comes in to evaluate Abby’s mental state. As they speak, Clarke’s eyes wander to the window where she can see Bellamy standing by the elevators.

He’s on the phone. Judging by his fingers’ restless motion on his thigh, he’s talking to Octavia. She calls at least once a week.

Bellamy is wary about trusting her again. As deeply as he loves his little sister, those scars don’t vanish overnight. What happened between them made Bellamy afraid to have his love thrown back in his face again. But he’s trying on the hope that they can be close one day. Better than before.

Abby admits that she has a problem and is interested in entering a rehab facility voluntarily. Clarke tells herself there’s hope for her, for them, even if she doesn’t feel it then. Clarke believes in second chances—or as many as it takes to get it right.

 

* * *

 

Around lunchtime, Bellamy suggests that Clarke goes home to the Griffin house to shower and eat.

“I’m not leaving her,” Clarke says firmly.

She’s not going to abandon her now, especially when Abby is in the dark clutches of detox. Behind the closed bathroom door, they can hear her mother heaving. Clarke winces.

“It’s just for a few hours,” Bellamy presses. “You can get some rest, get cleaned up and come back here.”

Clarke’s chin is stubbornly set. “I’m _fine_. My mom needs me here.” She levels him with a glare. “If you want to go, then go. I’ll give you a key to the house.”

Bellamy huffs. “You know that’s not what I mean. You need to take care of yourself before you can help her, Clarke. And you’re barely keeping yourself standing.”

It’s true that her body is running on fumes at this point. She slept like crap in the chair last night and the few hours she managed to catch where often interrupted by the nurses coming in to check on Abby. Clarke has seen what her puffy eyes look like in the mirror.

The bathroom door opens. Clarke helps her mother back into bed, who is trembling all over and weak from the bouts of vomiting. She tucks Abby under the thick blanket and helps her drink more water, even if the IV is supposed to be hydrating her.

The nurse on shift sweeps in later with soup for Abby, which she forces her to stay some sips of. It doesn’t take long for Abby to heave that up too into the bedpan. Clarke hates seeing her so sick and weak, feeling helpless but to watch her mother’s body attack itself.

It’s after her mother falls asleep that Bellamy hounds her about going home again. They had lunch from the cafeteria in the room, some cold sandwiches and chips.

“You can rest while she rests,” Bellamy whispers, preparing his next argument. “And the nurses will be here if she needs anything.”

Clarke holds on stubbornly, but her tiredness eventually wins out when she knocks out in the chair. Bellamy takes the opportunity to scoop her up and carries her out of the room to a car parked outside, one he rented after landing.

Clarke wakes up once the car is in motion, driving away from the hospital. Her eyes squint open at the afternoon sunlight pouring in. In confusion, she takes in the unfamiliar car and Bellamy in the driver’s seat, sunglasses shading his eyes.

“What the hell are you doing?” Clarke snaps, shoving herself upright. “Take me back!”

“That’s not happening,” Bellamy retorts. “I’m taking you to the house. Which, by the way, I need the address of unless you want me to drive aimlessly around town.”

Clarke turns her head to glare witheringly at him. She can’t believe Bellamy just _took_ her from the hospital against her will. Her irritation buzzes weakly in her ears, overridden by her exhaustion.

His fingers drum on the steering wheel as he waits for her answer. When she holds her tongue, Bellamy nods. “That’s fine. I’ll just take us to a hotel. I saw a Best Western on the way up here.”

“Ugh,” Clarke grunts. “You’re impossible.”

She gives in, if only because she’s not going to let Bellamy spend his money on a hotel room. She’s going to have to find a way to reimburse him for the plane ticket.

Clarke rattles off the address and rolls her eyes when Bellamy sarcastically thanks her. In fifteen minutes, they’re driving into the neighborhood she grew up in and soon pull up in front of the Tudor Style Griffin house.

She grabs her bag while Bellamy swings his backpack over his shoulder, following her up the pathway to the front door. Walking inside is just as nostalgic as when she last visited, hit in the face with the sad emptiness of the large house.

It’s missing her and Wells running around as children, her dad whistling as he worked in his office, her mother on conference calls with the hospital board. The soundtrack of a family living here, instead of a vacant husk.

Clarke takes Bellamy to a guest room, shows him the en-suite bathroom and shower he can use, stocked with toiletries. She leaves him there to head across the hall to her childhood room, too worn down to play a better hostess.

Clarke flicks off the lights, draws the curtains and drops into her full-sized bed. It’s leagues more comfortable than the stiff hospital chair, but she struggles to fall asleep. The room is pitch black and cool. There’s no reason she can’t drift off and find rest, except for the person she left at the end of the hallway.

She doesn’t _want_ to need him. But she does.

Bellamy is sitting up in bed, reading over a slip of paper when she trudges in, a bit sheepish. “Hey.”

She startles him. Bellamy’s eyes snap up, surprised to see her there before he folds up the paper and stuffs it away in his bag. “Hey. Can’t sleep?”

Clarke nods, hovering in the doorway. It’s ridiculous to hesitate. This is her parents’ house. But Bellamy has done so much for her already and she hates to ask him for anything. Especially something like this.

Bellamy cocks his head, studying her behind his glasses. “What is it?”

“Can you…” Clarke falters, but his dark eyes promise her understanding, the way Bellamy always effortlessly seems to understand her. “Can you hold me?”

His expression softens. Without a word, Bellamy pushes out of the guest bed and returns with Clarke to her bedroom, his hand tender on her lower back. He removes his glasses and waits as Clarke climbs in first, slips under the covers, before he fits himself behind her.

It’s a tight fit between the wall and the edge of the bed. But they make it work with Bellamy curled up against her back, lying on their sides. His arm is snug around her waist and she feels his breath stirring her hair. His heartbeat thumps where his chest is pressed against her, cocooning her in his warmth.

Her body relaxes, liquefies. She’s never felt this safe. Clarke laces her fingers with Bellamy’s, clasped over her stomach. Sleep tugs at her and it’s not a brief, fitful escape but the comfort of falling into a trustful embrace.

 

* * *

 

She wakes up to a dark bedroom, still safely wrapped by Bellamy’s body. His leg is slotted through hers, his breathing heavy and even against her back. Their hands have stayed locked while sleeping.

Clarke turns slowly over to face him. Her eyes take a minute to adjust to the fuzzy blackness and make out the outline of his face, the slope of his jaw, the dip in his chin. She touches his cool cheek, a brief caress under her fingertips.

“I love you,” Clarke whispers. “So much.”

His rumbling snores answer her. She smiles softly and lays a kiss on his lips before slipping out of the bed.

Clarke takes a shower, washing two days’ grease and a plane ride off of her. She leaves her hair to air-dry, changes into one of the warm outfits she packed with her and a pair of fuzzy socks.

Her room is empty when she returns. Clarke smells something cooking before she finds Bellamy in the kitchen, standing at the stove with his hair drying on the back of his neck.

The image is startling, seeing Bellamy standing barefoot in the house she grew up in.

But not wrong. He stirs in sauce in a pan, checks on the bread cooking in the toaster oven, fitting in seamlessly like he has always belonged here. In her life.

She doesn’t know what comes over then. Stress, undoubtedly, and how overwhelming it is to be in Arkadia again. Maybe Bellamy has to do with it. It’s too much.

Clarke bursts into tears. The sobs erupt out of her and she clamps a hand over her mouth to muffle the sound.

Bellamy whips around from the stove, alarm widening his eyes. “Clarke,” he calls for her and throws down the spoon he was holding before striding over to her, taking hold of her shoulders. “Hey. What’s wrong?”

She can’t stop crying, can’t calm herself down. All that emerges from her are pitiful sobs and gasping breaths.

Her fingers latch onto Bellamy’s sweater. She can’t see his face with the tears flooding her eyes and leaking out of her, an endless downpour.

“I can’t—I can’t,” Clarke wheezes.

“It’s okay,” Bellamy murmurs in what she imagines is his soothing, big-brother voice. He rubs her back in circles. “Just breathe.”

An embarrassing amount of time passes before she can quiet her cries and draw in a breath that isn’t a gasp. This isn’t the cathartic kind of sobbing. This hysterical episode leaves Clarke drained, yet still like she has a pool of sorrow inside her. More to release if she lets herself keep crying.

Her throat aches and her cheeks are uncomfortably hot. Bellamy’s hand on her back swiftly goes from comforting to unwanted on her too tight, itchy skin. Clarke has to step away and put some distance between them.

“You should go,” she says, her voice scratchy.

Bellamy draws back, squinting like he thinks he misheard her. “What?”

She focuses on her blue fuzzy socks, her fists clenched. “I think you should go now. I can take care of my mother without your help.”

 _Hypocrite,_ a voice lashes in her ears. Clarke accepts the slap of the word. She is one. Isn’t that the same thing her mother said to her when she confronted her about the pills? _I don’t need you here. I didn’t ask you to come back._

“I’m sure you can,” Bellamy says. “But what about _you_ , huh? Who takes care of you, Clarke?” He steps closer, his eyes imploring her to look up at him. “Let me be here for you. The way you were for me.”

She isn’t just a hypocrite, she’s a liar. She needs him more than anything. On her worst days like this, the good ones and the boring ones. Always there to hold her or make her laugh or tickle her sides when she’s being too serious. She wants the sweetness of waking up to him every day.

It’s not that she doesn’t want Bellamy here, taking care of her. It’s that she wants it too much. He crossed the line showing up here. A line that was already so blurry she lost sight of it a long time ago. Sure, he’s here _now_ because he’s Bellamy and he’s that selfless, that thoughtful. It’s in his nature to take care of people.

But he won’t stay. Not if he learns the truth about her feelings for him. Feelings that are deeper and more powerful than Clarke has felt in her life. Feelings that frankly scare the shit out of her. They’ll make him run off too.

Clarke would rather be cold and maintain her dignity in front of him than become the weepy, needy little girl she is inside. She has to shut off the part of her that longs to cling onto him and beg him to never leave her.

Her eyes meet his coolly, a deliberate curl to her lip as she retorts, “You don’t owe me anything.”

Finally, frustration makes Bellamy’s nostril flare, shredding his gentle handling of her. “Clarke, don’t do this. I get it, you’re upset. But don’t push me away.”

“I’m not.” Clarke offers a nonchalant shrug. “I appreciate you coming here, being a good friend, but you don’t have to stay. I can do this on my own.”

“Yeah? For how long?”  

“However long it takes,” she retorts.

Bellamy stares at her, his jaw taut like he’s trying to keep himself under control. She doesn’t understand the wide look of fear in his eyes.

“And then you’re coming back,” he says, not a question but a command. “Right?”

Clarke turns her face away before his piercing look breaks her resolve. There are more important things than what her heart wants right now. “I don’t know.”

Bellamy’s voice sharpens. “ _Clarke_ —”

“My mom needs me,” she continues before he can speak, try to change her mind. “I have to be here for her, for however it takes for her to be okay again.”

“And what about your life,” he counters, “in Polis?”

She shakes her head. “That doesn’t matter right now. I was being selfish, going out to clubs, screwing around, while my mom was struggling with her addiction.  I _knew_ that, but I left Arkadia anyway. I’m not making that mistake again.”

“You’ve never been selfish, Clarke,” he disagrees. “You take care of everyone else. Always. Why does this have to be on you too?”

Clarke turns back to stare at him, her brow wrinkled at his question. “She’s my mother. My family. You, of all people, should understand that. You’ve done _everything_ for Octavia.”

“I do understand,” Bellamy agrees hotly, his voice gaining volume with his evident frustration. “But this is different. You’re her daughter. _Abby_ is supposed to take care of _you_. She failed you and now you’re gonna be stuck here cleaning up after her!”

“I’m not stuck anywhere!” Clarke snaps. “It’s my _choice_ to be here. She has an addiction, Bellamy. She needs my help.”

“What about when you needed her?” He demands. “Abby abandoned you. Your lost your _dad_ , your whole world. But she was too busy drowning in her own shit that she didn’t notice that her daughter is in pain.”

He’s shouting now, his brown eyes bright with fury. “She let you walk out of your father’s funeral without a word. Then she took off to New Mexico and left you a fucking _note_. She left you to grieve alone this whole time. Where was _she_ all the times you cried yourself to sleep at our apartment?”

Clarke reels back, everything he’s saying a force of truth that slams hard into her stomach and steals her breath. She had no idea Bellamy _heard_ her on those nights she spent crying in grief, silencing her sobs in her pillow.

_Abby abandoned you. She didn’t notice that her daughter is in pain._

“Stop,” Clarke rasps, breathless. “Bellamy, _stop_!”

He doesn’t. Clarke doubts he even hears her. “She wasn’t there for you. And now you’re scared and pushing me out, even though I haven’t given you _one_ fucking reason not to trust me. You think, the second you let your guard down, I’ll walk away. But I’ll never do that to you. I'm  _here_ , Clarke.” 

“You’re wrong,” Clarke hisses before he can shoot another word, another bullet in her shredded gut. “I don’t want you here. I want you to _go_!”

Her voice isn’t as forceful as she means it to be. It sounds as broken as she feels. Hot tears streak down her face. Clarke clutches at her stomach where a hole has been eroded through her.

Finally, Bellamy stops and takes her in. He seems to realize she’s about to shatter and this time it’s because of him.

His expression twists with pain. “Clarke, I’m—”

“Go!” She croaks, her breathing uneven. “Get out.”

His hands hover out in front of him, his eyes agonized as he keeps his distance. She hates that it pricks at her with an irrational urge to soothe his guilt. 

But Clarke doesn’t give in, turning her face away and gritting her teeth as he brushes past her. She hears him in the hallway, footsteps retreating and returning to grab his things.

Clarke holds herself together long enough for the front door to shut. Then her strings are cut and she collapses onto the kitchen floor, her head bowed as she sobs.

Her cries echo through the empty house. This is what she wanted, right? To be alone?

No. This is what she _deserves_. Bellamy was right. She is a coward for pushing him away. She was a coward for running away from Arkadia and its ghosts. Now she’s running from her life in Polis. From him.

It’s all she knows how to do. Run and hide, like a little girl that’s never grown out of childhood games. She’s pathetic.

Clarke can’t face him. She is too exhausted to pick herself up off the floor.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Here's my [tumblr](http://www.kombellarke.tumblr.com)


	13. The Last Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, loves! Thank you for all of the inspiring comments I've gotten on this fic. It makes me so happy to hear how the story has resonated with you. I can't believe we've reached over 1k kudos. Mind = blown. 
> 
> **Note:** There is some breathplay in this chapter. I've missed adding the tag, but it's there now, in case that's not anyone's cup of tea. 
> 
> Also, I've updated the chapter length. This story has grown in ways I hadn't expected, so we should wrap up this baby at 17 chapters now 😊
> 
> Enjoy!

 

* * *

 

Morning light trickles in and stirs her eyelids. For a moment, Clarke is disoriented. There’s no window in her bedroom. Then it all comes back to her, along with the unfamiliar bed she’s in.

Clarke opens her eyes to her old room. She lays there silently, staring up at the popcorn ceiling. Her heart is just as heavy as it was last night when she succumbed to sleep, exhausted from crying.

She slept through the night, but she still feels worn. She can’t cry anymore. Her tears have been wrung out and now she’s like a photograph left out in the sun, shriveled and leached of color.

At some point, Clarke drags herself up and into the shower. She makes a pot of coffee after she dresses, but it does nothing to help her puffy eyes or the dark rings etched on her skin. It is only her responsibility to her mother that keeps Clarke moving, going through the motions when all she wants to do is go back to bed.

She removes her phone from its charger, packing up her purse for the day. That’s when she sees the text messages waiting on her screen. All from Bellamy.

7:42 a.m.: _i checked in at the best western._

8:00 a.m.: _i still have the car if you need a ride to the hospital._

8:50 a.m.: _i’m sorry, clarke._

9:20 a.m.: _i’ll be here if you want to talk. or if you need anything._

9:25 a.m.: _room 1223_

He’s still in Arkadia. He didn’t leave her.

Clarke covers her face with her hands, overcome by a hot swarm of shame. She hates the way they left things that night. She feels rotten inside from fighting with him. How can Bellamy still want to see her after the way she freaked out and threw him out?

She can’t face him yet. She isn’t ready.

Clarke slips her phone into her purse, the messages unanswered. They’ll have to be dealt with later. For now, she has to get back to her mom.

It takes her a few minutes to pull up the bus schedule, but Clarke figures it out and manages to catch a ride that drops her off on the corner of the block down from Arkadia Memorial. She stops for another cup of coffee in the cafeteria and grabs one for her mom as well.

Abby is still suffering from the flu-like symptoms of detox. She’s mostly bedridden for the morning while Clarke makes the arrangements on her behalf with the Mount Weather Recovery center. There’s paperwork that Abby has to take care of, but she can be voluntarily checked in the next day.

Clarke is uncertain about her mother’s current state, but the center reassures her that they can help Abby through withdrawal and keep her comfortable. She tells them she’ll get back to them.

Around noon, Abby is cleared for discharge from the hospital. She’s no longer a surgical patient and even though she is clearly ill, Clarke gets the impression the hospital doesn’t want to waste resources on an addict. They send Abby off with standard instructions of getting rest and drinking plenty of fluids.

Clarke calls up an Uber to take them home. She gets her mom settled at the house in the master bedroom, preparing toast and some soup that she thankfully keeps down this time. After the late lunch, Abby seems well enough to talk, propped up in bed.

Clarke takes a seat in front of her. “Mom, the rehab place said they can take you in tomorrow. If you’re ready.”

Abby still looks sick, eyes watery-red and her hands shaking uncontrollably. But she curls them around her blanket and manages a firm nod. “We’ll go tomorrow.”

Clarke frowns. “If you don’t feel well—”

“No,” Abby cuts in softly. “This isn’t going to get any easier. I’m sick out of my mind, Clarke, and all I can think about is how the pills will make it better. I have to go. As soon as possible.”

“Okay,” she agrees. “Get some rest then.”

Clarke leaves her mother’s room. She prepares some food for herself and keeps busy with the book she’s reading. Of course, that only reminds her of Bellamy. He hasn’t left her thoughts all day, clinging stubbornly to a corner she refuses to acknowledge.

She receives a voicemail from the Azgeda office that afternoon. Nia coldly informs her that her absences from work are unacceptable and she is being let go.

Clarke numbly deletes the voicemail. Her miserable job doesn’t seem worth getting upset about at the moment. She doesn’t have the energy for it. And truthfully, getting fired is a blip on her radar compared to the dark cloud of her fight with Bellamy.

She puts on some mindless television to distract herself, all the while ignoring the painful nudging of her heart to go to him. Clarke falls asleep, a brief nap that leaves her slightly refreshed and wakes up at 8 p.m., the sky dark outside the windows.

Her mother is curled up in bed, deep asleep when Clarke checks on her, the television off and the shades are drawn. It’s likely she’ll be out until morning.

With Abby no longer requiring her attention, Clarke is out of excuses. After such a long, draining day, she doesn’t want to come up with anymore. She’s tired of fighting herself.

Clarke misses him. The ache doesn’t just reside in her heart. She aches for Bellamy in her whole body, down in her bones.

And ultimately, Clarke doesn’t _want_ to be a coward.

If Bellamy can find it in himself to forgive his sister, if her mother can decide to tackle her demons head-on, then Clarke can stop hiding and face him.

Anxiety prickles under her skin during the ride to his hotel. She quietly thanks the driver and makes her way inside, shivering from the cold air before she ducks into the toasty warm hotel lobby.

His room is on the first floor, located next to the ice machine. Clarke’s hand quivers before she forms a fist to knock on the door, her pulse skipping wildly.

The door swings open. Bellamy appears, dressed in his comfy grey hoodie and joggers, his jaw studded with black stubble. His eyes widen, surprise flashing at the sight of her. He wasn’t sure if she would actually come.

“Clarke,” he exhales.

“Hi,” she says, almost inaudible. She clears her throat. “Can I come in?”

Bellamy steps back to let her slip past him into the hotel room. His familiar scent reaches her immediately, calms her and looses the knot of nerves in her gut.

The television is on, muted, playing the local news. She spots a tray of room service by the door and his backpack beside it. His current paperback is sitting on the nightstand next to the double bed.

There’s a click as the door shuts. Clarke turns around to face him.

Silence shrouds the room, shaded in by the lingering sadness and tension from their last conversation. She can’t think of a time in the months they’ve known each other where they’ve been like this. Stilted and hesitant with each other. She hates it.

Bellamy doesn’t meet her eye, focused on the carpeted floor. His messy curls fall across his forehead, his rigid jaw the only sign he gives her, expression closed off.

Just like that, a crack appears down the center of her heart. He can’t even look at her. Clarke’s lower lip starts to tremble. “Bell, I’m so sorry.”

His head snaps up and his eyes are suddenly a rolling storm of regret and shame, the guarded veil dropped.

“No,” he says fiercely. “ _I’m_ sorry, Clarke. What I said was way out of line. You’re going through so much and I just made it worse.”

“You were trying to help,” Clarke disagrees. “I should have listened.”

“She’s your family. It isn’t my business.” Bellamy’s eyes drop to his hands, fiddling with the string on his pants. A tell that he feels as vulnerable as she does. “You said you might stay here and I just…panicked.”

Clarke takes a breath. He deserves her honesty, now more than ever. She can give him that. “I would have reacted the same way if you said you were moving.”

Bellamy glances up at her, that look under his lashes that melts her every time. He smiles slightly. “Yeah?”

“Total panic,” she replies and smiles back at him. “You flew to Arkadia to support me. I figure you’re entitled to at least one impassioned rant.”

Bellamy lets out a laugh, a mirror of her relief. He straightens up, crossing the room to stand in front of her, but pauses, looking at her searchingly. He’s waiting for her go-ahead.

“You’re forgiven,” Clarke says. “Will you forgive me for throwing you out?”

“Always,” he answers.

She closes the gap between them, hugging around his neck. Bellamy’s arms pull her in tight, holding her against him, and she swears they both exhale in perfect sync. A sound of relief. _Home_.

As her eyes close, losing herself in his warm embrace, Clarke makes a vow to not let things with Bellamy get screwed up again. She hates fighting with him. It was a pain she hadn’t experienced before. Like a hole had been eroded through her and she was decaying inside. Incomplete.

She’s going to make things right between them.

Clarke turns her face to kiss his neck softly, feeling him shiver. “I missed you.”

It’s only been a day they’ve been apart, but it felt impossibly longer. Bellamy squeezes her waist like he understands, his face tucked in her hair.

She draws back to look at him, rubbing his soft bottom lip with her thumb and gives him her most sultry glance, hoping it can convey how badly she wants him right now.

Sex is the best way to get them back into their regular rhythm. It’s how all of this started really and it’s fitting that it should be how it ends too.

Bellamy inhales sharply. “God, Clarke, when you look at me like that…”  He sucks on her thumb, makes her gasp and releases it with a wet pop. “Drives me fucking crazy.”

 _She_ is losing her mind with need. It’s been days since he’s been inside of her. Clarke presses her hips against him. “I need you.”

A low groan escapes him, his hand tightening on the curve of her waist. She can feel the stirring of his cock, already half-hard for her, and it sets a match to her desire, fanning the flames.

She sees the change in him. Pupils dilating, a smirk forming on his lips. His own desire takes over, sweeping away the signs of his earlier uncertainty. Clarke loves Bellamy in all his forms. His soft, vulnerable side evokes such tenderness in her that she’s never felt so strongly for someone else.

But this side drives her wild. His confidence and forcefulness that matches perfectly with what she likes in bed.

Bellamy ducks his head to claim her mouth, tasting her deep and slow. “You need me?” He asks, a cocky taunt she can’t get enough of. “Tell me, Clarke.”

She kisses under his ear, teasing the lobe lightly with her teeth and pleads, “Please, Bell. I need you inside me. Just you.”

He’s rock-hard between their bodies, just as aroused as she is, her cunt hot and slick for him. Clarke grinds against him and his large hands knead her ass, allowing the friction for a minute while she pants in his ear, clings on to his shoulders.

Then Bellamy pulls away and hushes Clarke’s whine. “I’ve got you, babe. I’ve got you.”

He works her coat off and the layers she bundled herself in. Their clothes litter the carpeted floor, leading in a short trail over to the bed. 

Locked in a kiss, his hands fisted in her hair, they fall naked onto the mattress without letting go of each other. Both reluctant to separate now that they’re together again.

Clarke can’t help but think of the first time they did this, miles away and so many months ago. Her blood burns remembering how they fooled around in the pool and snuck back, dripping wet and desperate for each other, stumbling into his bedroom.

She wants him just like she did then, couldn’t wait for his cock to sink inside her, fuck her rough and hot like she heard him do to the other girls.

The difference is now she isn’t in a rush. Now, Clarke is going to savor each touch, try to memorize the feeling of his skin under her hands, burn the hoarse sounds of his pleasure in her mind. She doesn’t want to forget anything.

She’s going to take it slow like it’s the last time she’ll ever get to have him like this. Because it is.

Bellamy rolls himself on top of her, fitting in between Clarke’s parted legs. He breaks away from her tingling lips to kiss down the slope of her neck and she arches for him, laying her head back on the cool sheets.

Clarke sighs as he reaches her tits, kissing around her nipple before drawing the hard peak into his mouth and sucking.

She moans for him, the wetness pooling in her cunt. Bellamy cups her other breast in his palm, gives it a firm squeeze.

“You’re fucking gorgeous, Princess,” he murmurs and bites gently at her other nipple, making her gasp. “Can’t wait to taste you.”

He takes his wet, soft kisses down her stomach, her navel and the jut of her hipbones. Every caress of his lips on her skin is overwhelming, both the sweetest comfort and the most electrifying torture. Her body aches to take him inside her, as close as they can possibly get.

Clarke’s eyes open to watch him, entranced by the sight of Bellamy’s dark head between her legs. He glances up, catches her looking, and holds her heated gaze as he places a kiss to her cunt.

His pupils are blown wide, his brown eyes flared with molten desire. That intense look disappears when his head bows again and he laps up the slickness clinging to her pussy lips. His tongue traces over her folds like he can’t get enough of the taste of her.

“Mmm,” Bellamy moans against her as she squirms. “So sweet for me.”

“Bellamy,” she whines. “ _Please_.”

A flash of his grin as he nips at her inner thigh. He sucks a mark there before kissing his way back down to her cunt.

He uses two fingers to spread her folds and at last licks generously at her clit. Her thighs tremble under the nudge of his tongue.

“That feels amazing,” Clarke moans. She combs her fingers through his curls encouragingly. “You’re so good to me, Bell.”

He pleasures her with rapid flicks of his tongue, pausing only to suck on her clit, alternately back and forth. Clarke digs her nails into the sheets for something to hold onto, moans and soft cries from her filling up the room. It’s heaven.

She can feel the wetness dripping out of her. All because of him.

Then Bellamy thrusts two long fingers inside her and curls them up while he works her clit. Her breathing hitches. Clarke writhes on the bed with her orgasm swelling up hot and fast in her core. She can’t keep her hips still as he rubs her G-spot.

“Oh god,” Clarke gasps out. “Don’t stop. Fuck!”

Bellamy chuckles on her cunt. “Yeah, that feels good, Princess? Show me.”

The vibration of his words sends her hurtling over her peak. She comes pulsing on his tongue, her cunt clenching around his fingers. Toes curling from the sweet intensity of her orgasm rolling through her. Bellamy’s name stutters off of her lips.

Her cries melt into soft moans as her climax ends. Clarke turns her cheek against the bed, panting for air in her lungs. Her pussy twitches with aftershocks.

She opens her eyes to Bellamy wiping at his glistening chin. He stretches out beside her, propped up on his arm, and smiles, fondness creasing the corner of his eyes.

“You’re amazing,” he says, dropping a kiss her bare shoulder.

Clarke scoffs. _He_ is the amazing one. She’s just lucky.

She has a moment of doubt, icy sharp in her lungs.  _Are you willing to give that up?_

Clarke shakes the thought away. She isn’t. Bellamy cares about her. What she’s giving up is the physical stuff. Just the sex. They’ll still be friends and roommates.

“You’re really good at that, you know.”

“Yeah,” he says. “I know.”

Her eyes roll. “You could say _thank you_. Smug jackass.”

Bellamy laughs as he leans down over her on his elbows. He bites playfully at her bottom lip. Clarke pulls him down onto top of her until they’re flush again, kisses him deep and languid to savor the feeling his mouth moving with hers.

She feels his thick, hard cock on her hip. Clarke fits her hand in between them to wrap around his erection. She tugs at him in slow, teasing pulls, twisting her wrist and pressing her thumb into his leaking slit.

He really is big. Feels so fucking good inside her, stretched and full. She’s going to miss his cock.

“Miss what?” Bellamy whispers, breaking their kiss.

She realizes she must have said that out loud. “Nothing.”

His forehead rests on hers, breathing heavy as Clarke strokes his length. The wet sounds are getting her hot, fast. His hands run down her body, his rough palms cupping her tits and pinching her taut nipples.

Bellamy nuzzles her neck. “You scared the shit out of me,” he admits. “I thought you weren’t coming back.”

Her throat closes. Clarke doesn’t tell him she thought about it. He already thinks she’s a coward. He doesn’t need to know how she plotted to hide in Arkadia, scared of facing his anger and disgust with her.

“I’m here, Bell.”

“Yeah.” He kisses her cheek, a light peck, lingering sweetly with his lips. “You’re here.”

Gently, he nudges her hand away, replaces it with his around his cock. “Condom?”

Clarke shakes her head. She’s going to have him without anything between them for the last time.

“Thank God,” Bellamy chuckles. “I love being able to feel you.”

“Me too,” Clarke agrees. Her stomach clenches in anticipation for the moment Bellamy enters her, filling her perfectly, the way no one else can. “How do you want me?”

That smirk stretches his mouth. The one that gets under her skin and also quickens her breath with arousal, picturing all the dirty things he could do to her.

Bellamy lies down beside her, pulling at Clarke’s hips to position her on her side. He hooks her leg on the outside of his, gets himself between her legs and slicks his cock in her wetness.

Clarke moans as he rubs through her folds. She feels the warmth of his chest pressed to her back, a delicious mimic of they how cuddled at her parents’ house.  She loves feeling his bare skin against hers, his breath hitting her neck, so close it’s like he’s everywhere, enveloping her.

A cry escapes her when his cockhead spreads her lips apart and finally buries inside her.

“Fuck, Clarke,” Bellamy grits between his teeth as her walls embrace him. “You feel incredible.”

He mouths at her neck, kissing her pulse point he bottoms out. Just the right amount of sweet to go with the stretch before she adjusts to his girth, filled completely.

Clarke savors him there, squeezing around him and making him groan roughly in her ear. She doesn’t want him to move yet, to be any closer to this being over, for good.

His hips start pumping inside her and her resistance is lost to the hot drag of his cock. Her nails dig into the arm wrapped around her stomach as he thrusts, feeling so smooth and warm and thick in her cunt.

“Yeah, Bell,” Clarke encourages him, her voice a husky rumble. “Give it to me. Come on.”

Bellamy clutches her close to him. “Yeah, you like that?” He nips at the shell of her ear, teases the skin with his teeth. “You do. Take my cock so well, pretty girl.”

“I love it,” she moans. _I love you._

She reaches behind her to grip at his damp, tousled curls. Her eyes close, losing herself to the rhythmic pleasure in her slick cunt, being fucked deeply and intensely by him. He always knows how to give it to her, make everything else disappear.

Just Bellamy, the familiar press of his skin as their bodies move together, lost under the heady scent of sweat and sex and _him_.

He tilts her chin toward him to kiss her, long and hungry. His hand skims down to cup her breast, rolling her hard nipple in his fingers, and Clarke moans into his mouth.

Bellamy’s hips speed up and she has to break away from him to pant, “ _Slow_ , go slow.”

She isn’t ready for this to be over. _Not yet._

“We have all night,” he replies easily, kissing her again. “And this room to ourselves.”

He punctures his next words with hard, pointed thrusts, making her shudder and push her ass back against him helplessly. His voice is low and sinful in her ears.

“Gonna fuck you again and again. You’ll be able to feel me all day tomorrow. Right _here_.” His hand palms her tingling pussy, dripping down her inner thighs. “How does that sound, Clarke?”

Her voice is stolen from her when he slams into her like that, hitting the perfect angle head-on. Pleasure shoots through her in dizzying sparks. She can only tighten her fingers in his hair, gasping for breath, given over to his control.

Her second orgasm is rising. She starves it off for as long as she can. It’s hard with Bellamy’s cock dragging across her G-spot and then he starts kneading her clit under the rough pad of his thumb.

“You close, babe?” Bellamy notices of course. “I can feel how tight you are. Goddamn. You wanna come again, Clarke?”

“ _Bellamy._ ” She whimpers his name. She can’t say no.

This can’t go on forever. As much as she wishes she could stop time and just exist here with him, she can’t. Tears prick her eyes. Clarke has to let him go after this and she’s not ready.

It won’t be the same. He won’t kiss her, won’t hold like this again.

“Hey,” Bellamy murmurs, stroking his palm over her stomach. He thinks she’s frustrated because she can’t come, stuck on the edge. “It’s okay, I’ve got you.”

Another whimper escapes her when he abruptly pulls out. Bellamy rolls her onto her back and pushes inside her in one fluid motion. He props her legs on his shoulders and Clarke’s back arches from the delicious change in angle.

Unable to stop the high, needy noises she’s making, Clarke claws at the pillow under her head. She’s so close already, riding the edge, the pressure coiled inside her and waiting to snap.

Bellamy kisses under her jaw, nuzzling her. “What do you need, Princess? I’ll give it to you.”

Clarke grabs at his hand, desperate as she guides it to her throat. He’s the only person she’s ever trusted to do this to her. She needs this one last time.

Bellamy understands. He wraps his large hand around her neck and arousal burns hotter in her core, just having him there. His fingers press in, applying firm pressure, but she needs more.

She needs the orgasm forced out of her. He has to make her forget, at least for a little while, that after tonight she won’t feel Bellamy this close to her ever again.

“ _Harder_ ,” Clarke begs him. “Please.”

He squeezes her throat until her breathing stutters, her air cut off. Finally, she feels herself slipping out of her body. The last thing Clarke sees is Bellamy’s dark eyes boring into her, still thrusting into her cunt, before the black spots dance in her vision.

It’s intense when she comes, a white-hot surge blazing through her. A breathless cry leaves her lips when Bellamy’s hand releases her. Shuddering and clenching on his cock as pleasure swallows her up and spits her out, soaked in bliss.

Bellamy presses his face into her neck, his hips jerking tight against her. He lets out a deep, satisfied moan as he spills himself inside her. “God, Clarke,” he hisses.

His body melts on top of her, the tension bled out of him. She doesn’t mind the weight. Not at all. Clarke keeps her legs locked around his waist, scratching her nails lightly over his scalp and slowly takes in air.

He turns his face toward her and their noses graze before their lips meet in a soft kiss.

It hurts to let him go, a physical ache as Bellamy pulls out. She watches him through half-lidded eyes as he gets up to retrieve a washcloth from the bathroom. Then he returns and sweetly cleans between her legs.

Bellamy tosses the washcloth and climbs in beside her. He tugs the sheets up to cover them both. Doesn’t say a word about leaving or kicking her out, back to the house. Just tucks his arm under his head, content, and offers her that lazy, post-sex grin she loves.

“That was so good,” Bellamy murmurs, sighing.

Clarke hums in agreement, her afterglow blanketing her in a soft haze. All she wants to do now is curl up in his arms and sleep beside him forever.

He reaches out to touch her neck, laying his fingers over the red marks she imagines are leftover. His expression is tender as he leans in and presses a kiss to her throat.

“Bellamy…” Clarke breathes. She doesn’t know what else to say.

When he sits back, he shakes his head at her. She doesn’t have to say anything.

They exist in comfortable silence. She tucks herself into his side, her head resting on his shoulder. Peace washes over as they lay together, Bellamy’s fingers running through her hair and his chest moving rhythmically under her palm.

She is lulled into a brief nap. Bellamy wakes her up around midnight, kissing and bathing his tongue over her clit.

He eats her out slowly, torturing her as he lets her climax build only to stop before she can come. Again and again. Clarke is driven wild with it, begging him to let her come. Finally, he lets her ride his face and the whole floor must her hear scream while Bellamy's dark, satisfied laugh echoes under her. 

After, he makes good on his promise, fucking two more orgasms out of Clarke. By the third one, it feels like she can’t stop coming, Bellamy’s fingers vibrating on her clit and her legs shaking. He's right. She's going to be sore as hell tomorrow. 

She finishes him off by eagerly going down on him one last time. Then they kiss for what feels like hours, their lips swollen and numb, falling asleep in each other’s arms.

 

* * *

 

The next morning is soft bliss compared to the day before. Clarke wakes up in another unfamiliar room, but it’s with her cheek resting on Bellamy’s warm chest, her arm thrown across his stomach. His steady heartbeat thrums in her ear.

She shifts over to be able to see his face, peaceful in sleep. Absolutely gorgeous with the sunlight spilling on his long eyelashes and dark freckles scattered across olive skin, full lips parted open.

Clarke gives herself this last hour or so to be selfish. She lets herself simply stare at him, listening to his snores, mesmerized as if viewing a Monet or a Van Gogh painting.

She doesn’t think he sleeps much longer, but she isn’t keeping track of time. Eventually, his breathing shifts and he blinks his eyes open. A quick look of puzzlement then amusement as he finds her gazing at him.

His lips curve up. “Morning.”

Clarke smiles, awash in warmth and fondness, watching him rub the sleep out of his eyes. “Morning.”

He leans over to kiss her, cupping her cheek in his palm. God, she must be really gone for him. Clarke doesn’t even mind the stale morning breath or the scratch of rough stubble, not when it’s him.

He pulls back, his brown eyes soft as he touches her cheek. “You look happy.”

“I am,” Clarke answers. “I’m happy you’re here. And Mom agreed to go into rehab today.”

Bellamy smiles back. “That’s good, Clarke. Do you…” he hesitates before he asks, “Do you want me to go with you?”

“That’s okay.” Clarke touches his hand on her cheek reassuringly. “I’m fine taking her alone. Really. I know you have to get back to work, Bell.”

A pucker appears between his brows. Clarke hates the trace of fear and uncertainty she glimpses in his eyes. He’s worried about her going alone, pushing him away again. She’s quick to soothe his concern.

“I’m flying back to Polis,” she tells him, meaning it sincerely. “Either tonight or tomorrow morning. Once she’s settled in at the center. I promise.”

Rehab is the best place for her mother right now. Mount Weather is equipped to help Abby through her addiction recovery in ways that Clarke can’t. She will support her though, in visits and calls, making sure Abby knows she isn’t alone.

Clarke still feels like she failed her mother the first time, leaving her behind in Arkadia. But some of Bellamy’s argument has seeped into her mind and taken root. It isn’t much different from the conversation she had with him about Octavia.

It was up to his sister to work on her healing process and take responsibility. Bellamy couldn’t force her. And it’s up to Abby now to put in the work battling against her addiction. All Clarke can do is be there for her mother, emotional support as her daughter, but she’s not going to put her life on hold either.

Bellamy stares into her eyes, searching. Clarke has no doubt he can tell if she were lying to him. When he finds that she isn’t, the tension leaves his body. “Okay.”

“Okay,” Clarke echoes. She forces herself out of bed and reaches for her underwear on the floor. “I’ve got to get going. The center opens soon.”

Clarke gets her sweater on over her bra before Bellamy draws her back onto his lap, his hands anchoring her hips in place. She doesn’t put up a strong resistance, kissing him back hungrily, lost under the dizzying spell of his mouth.

Time slips away from her again. She can’t think with Bellamy’s tongue caressing hers. Then he presses against the front of her boyshorts where a damp spot is forming.

Clarke makes herself break away. “I have to go,” she protests, breathless.

Bellamy sucks under her jaw until he pulls a moan out of her. “What’s your rush, huh? I’ve got this room until 11. We’ve haven’t even christened the shower yet.”

She feels the press of Bellamy’s smirk on her throat. The temptation dangles in front of her. _Just a little bit longer_. _Just one last time…_

No. Clarke can’t cave. It will never be enough. Last night was the last time. She has to cut herself off now, start the withdrawal process. It’s not going to get any easier.

“I can’t,” she says.

The disappointment on his face nearly does her in. Bellamy looks like pure temptation against the headboard, white sheets bunched around his bare waist, his soft curls in disarray and mouth red from her work. It’s hell to turn away from him.

She re-dresses quickly and comes around to press a peck to Bellamy’s mouth in goodbye. “Call me when you land,” she tells him.

He says he will and Clarke makes a hasty retreat out of the hotel room. It takes all of her strength not to climb back into bed with him, laze away the morning with kisses and room service and a hot shower with Bellamy washing her hair.

She can’t linger another second or she’ll never leave.

 

* * *

 

Clarke goes with her mother to her intake at Mount Weather. She doesn’t get to see the room Abby will be staying in or much of the facility, but it seems clean and well looked after, if a little cold.

Her mother changes into the mandated paper scrubs and then they’re allowed some time to say goodbye before she goes in. Clarke offers to stay for a few days and look after the house, ignoring the voice in her head that pesters her about how Bellamy will react to that.

Abby surprises her by saying, “No, you won’t. Amelia has that covered. She’ll come by to clean once a week and your dad installed a great security system, remember?”

Clarke bites her lip. This is the plan, the right thing to do, but it still feels strange to just _leave_ her mom in this place and walk away. “But—”

Her mother reaches for her hand, sitting next to her in front of the check-in desk. Some of Abby’s color has returned to her cheeks and she looks better than in the hospital, her hair freshly washed and eyes clear.

“You’ve done enough, honey. I appreciate it. But this part is on me now. You can go home, get back to your life.”

Abby smiles encouragingly, but it wilts at the distraught look that crosses Clarke’s face. Her mother’s fingers squeeze hers. “What’s wrong?”

Clarke clears her throat. “Nia fired me. I told her it was a family emergency, but well, losing my father was the limit on that, apparently.”

As expected, her mother’s expression is shaded by guilt, which is why Clarke hadn’t wanted to tell her about this. “I’m so sorry. What are you going to do?”

Clarke offers her a weak smile. “I’ll think of something. I have some money saved. That’ll last me until after the holidays. Then, we’ll see.”

“I’m sorry about that,” her mom repeats. “But I’m not worried. You’re just like your dad. He never met a problem he couldn’t find a creative solution to.” Abby leans in to kiss her brow. “You’ll be okay, Clarke.”

She catches a whiff of her mother’s coconut shampoo and it brings back a rolling wave of memories from her childhood. Nostalgia tickles her throat. The Griffin house is just a structure now, stripped of what made it home. What Clarke longs for is the feeling of belonging, family and warm acceptance.

When she thinks of those things now, different flashes come with it: the apartment in Polis. Murphy singing Led Zeppelin songs as he cooked, Raven swearing up a storm as she tinkered with something, Bellamy curled up on the couch, his nose buried in a book. The sticky, crowded booth at the Dead Zone and the faces of her friends. A campfire in the woods and familiar laughing chiming in her ears.

She has so much to lose if she stays here in Arkadia, in an empty house. But if Clarke goes home, to Polis, she has a feeling it _will_ be okay.

She looks at her mother. “Will you?”

“I don’t know,” Abby admits. She sees the trace of uncertainty in her mom’s eyes. “But I _want_ to be. I think that’s a good place to start.”

Clarke smiles. She’s proud of her mother just for being here, for having the courage to admit that she needs help. “Yeah. I think so too.”

 

* * *

 

Her roommate catches her just as Clarke walks through the front door with her bag, returning from her morning flight back to Polis.

Raven is exiting the kitchen, a steaming mug of coffee in her hand. She looks surprised for a moment to see Clarke come in, then back to her typical, half-awake glare. “Hey. Coffee’s on.”

Clarke nods, lips tugging into a half-smile. “Okay. Thanks.”

It’s the most civil thing Raven has said directly to her since she found out about her and Bellamy sleeping together. She was giving her roommate time to cool off and then Raven and Murphy got together right before she got the call about her mom.

They haven’t talked in so long. Clarke misses her. But she doesn’t have the energy to grovel or fight Raven’s self-righteous anger. She files it away as a problem to tackle another day.

Then Raven adds, “We’re going to brunch at Eden later. Emori’s coming too.” She pauses and Clarke sees a glimpse of the vulnerability her roommate guards so closely slipping through. “It’ll be better if you’re there. _I_ want you there, Clarke.”

Clarke gives her a brighter, relieved smile. She’s pleasantly surprised at the offer. “Of course I’ll come.”

Raven nods back and trudges upstairs.

She has a checklist to get through before brunch, starting with coffee and some fruit for breakfast. Then Clarke showers, gets dressed for the day, sorts out her dirty clothes for the laundry, and does some unpacking before it’s time to head out.

Harper and Emori both hug her, also happy that she’s back in the city. Brunch goes smoothly. Clarke catches them up on what’s going on with her mother and being let go from Azgeda. She appreciates their sympathy but doesn’t want to dwell on those things.

They move on to talking about their friends over mimosas. Everyone is still adjusting to Raven and Murphy being, officially, together. Harper leans in to stage-whisper to Clarke that they’ve been _insufferable_ as a couple and to be glad she’s missed it.

“Really?” Clarke asks, raising her eyebrows. She has a hard time picturing Raven or Murphy being affectionate in front of their friends. 

“Raven was sitting in Murphy’s lap at the Dead Zone,” Harper tells her. That doesn’t seem that bad until she continues, “and he was fingering her under the table.”

Clarke chokes on her mimosa while Raven just retorts, “You have no proof of that.”

Harper rolls her eyes at Clarke. “They totally were.”

“Yikes,” Clarke says when she stops coughing. “So glad I wasn’t there to witness that.”

The only awkward hiccup that arises is when Raven seems to remember Emori is Murphy’s ex and apologizes for bringing talking about their new relationship.

Emori gives Raven a small smile. “I’m over him. I’ve been over him a long time. It’s okay, Raven.”

Raven nods, swallowing down the rest of her mimosa. Clarke recognizes the minuscule signs of her uneasiness. “Thanks,” Raven mutters, a bit awkwardly. “That means a lot. You know, that you’re cool with it.”

Emori takes her hand across the table. “I’m happy you’re happy. I could never have a problem with that.” She flashes a sharp grin. “And if John screws this up, I look forward to kicking his ass.”

“Right behind you,” Clarke teases, raising her glass.

It’s much too cold inside to walk around, so after brunch, they huddle inside the warmth of Harper’s apartment. Clarke makes them hot chocolate the way Bellamy taught her, which they sip at, piled in the living room and watch _Elf._

Clarke has her feet propped in Harper’s lap. Raven curls up beside her under their wool blanket and lays her head on Clarke’s shoulder during the movie. Their fight is behind them.

The following Wednesday night is their Friendsgiving get-together.

Clarke had forgotten about the approaching holidays while she was in Arkadia. Too inside her own head to remember the rest of the world. It also slipped her mind that she volunteered to make sweet potato pie for the occasion with Bellamy.

At the time when her friends were divvying up the cooking duties, this was the opposite of a problem. But now, Clarke is trying to put some space between them and being confined in a hot, small kitchen will make it that much harder to not kiss him again, let alone jump him.

Bellamy has been at work during the week and Clarke has made herself scarce in their free time to avoid temptation. She doesn’t have Azgeda to escape to now, so she signs up for an art class she’s had her eye on but no time to take and meets Roan for dinner and drinks, keeping out of the apartment.

Clarke has to talk to him eventually. She tells herself she’s not being a coward; she’s just waiting until after the Thanksgiving activities. And Clarke doesn’t trust herself with sweet potato duty with Bellamy.

She brings up a suggestion to get out of it when they’re having a roommate dinner/Friendsgiving overview with Harper and Miller at their place.

“Oh,” Clarke gasps as if just remembering. “Roan found his grandmother’s recipe. I’ve been asking him for it for weeks.”

She has but fails to mention how Roan refused to give up the recipe without an invite to their get-together. She told him no in the interest of _not_ provoking Bellamy. Plus, Roan was just trying to avoid his family’s gathering.

Clarke takes a sip of iced tea and then casually suggests, “I’ll just make the pie with him and bring it back here.” She cuts her eyes to Bellamy. “You’re off the hook.”

Bellamy frowns at her. She feels a stab of guilt for blowing him off, especially at the last minute. But Bellamy hadn’t wanted to cook or bake anything in the first place. She dragged him into her with her. Now, he doesn’t have to do it.

“When you say ‘grandmother’s recipe’,” Bellamy asks, “do you mean from the King’s private chef?”

Clarke rolls her eyes at his snark. “It’s a family recipe. Guarded like gold. I had to bribe him just to give it to me.”

“Not with sexual favors, I hope,” Murphy goads, smirking at her.

Clarke relishes slamming the heel of her boot into his foot. Murphy lets out a loud swear, cursing her. He deserves it. He said that _just_ to provoke Bellamy, the dick.

Beside Murphy, Raven shakes her head unsympathetically and Bellamy is glaring at him.

Harper, bless her, senses the animosity simmering between the roommates and jumps up from the table. “Speaking of pie…we have some pumpkin pie here. Let’s have some before the other assholes eat it all tomorrow, yeah?”

On Wednesday, Clarke practically forces herself into Roan’s apartment and demands the recipe. Either he’s in the holiday spirit or he feels bad about his mother firing her because he helps her make the pie.

While baking, Roan apologizes on his mother’s behalf and offers to fight for Clarke to get her job back.

She appreciates his offer, but it's probably for the best. She might not have left Azgeda on her own and now she has no choice but to find something better.

That evening Clarke arrives at Harper and Miller’s with the sweet potato pie and a fancy bottle of wine courtesy of Roan that will definitely not go to waste.

Her friends are all crammed into the apartment and it warms Clarke to be surrounded by them. They stuff themselves with food, eating off of paper plates and plastic cups filled with wine, draped on the couch and living room floor.

They’re all too full to move after. Clarke is slumped on the couch with Raven leaning against her legs on the floor and Bellamy sits beside her like he always does.

As Jasper loudly voices his opinion on Avengers: Endgame and Raven boos him in disagreement, Bellamy toys with a curl of her hair around his finger.

His cheek is resting on the couch, all soft and lazy, his brown eyes slightly glassy from the wine. Clarke looks back at him, her stomach tingling.

She still gets butterflies from him playing with her hair. No shot in hell of her getting over him.

But she has to try.

 

* * *

 

She’s been back in Polis a week. It’s time.

Clarke gave herself the holiday. She didn’t want to ruin their Friendsgiving with potential awkwardness, not when everything was good between the group again. Then, on Thanksgiving, Bellamy drove up to spend the day and that Friday with Octavia.

Clarke ate left-overs with Murphy and Raven at their apartment. She tried to watch the Macy’s Parade with them in the living room, but their groping and making-out drove her into her room, gagging loudly at their PDA.

Mount Weather allowed Abby a short Skype session for the holiday. Clarke chatted with her, talking about her friends and Black Friday shopping that she wouldn’t actually go through with. The rehab center believed in light conversation for their calls, so Clarke avoided mentioning Abby’s addiction.

Bellamy drives back from seeing Octavia Saturday morning. Clarke is bored to tears at the apartment, already stir-crazy being out of work for the week. But she turns down his offer to go to Grounders and sit in on his self-defense class.

Clarke loves watching him with his students, but she’s trying to prepare herself for The Conversation. She isn’t ready to see him yet. Instead, she goes with Monty and Jasper to the movies that afternoon and numbs her anxiety with some flashy action film.

When the movie ends, Clarke texts him, a struggle with how bad her hands are trembling. _Meet me on the rooftop?_

His reply comes in quick: _now?_

 _Fifteen minutes,_ she answers and shoves her phone into her coat pocket.

Clarke arrives back at the apartment building, her nerves fluttering in her belly. She’s dreading this, but she’s put it off long enough. She only hopes that Bellamy doesn’t question her too much about it.

She expects he’ll be disappointed. Their sex is great, after all. But he can easily find someone else to hook-up with, despite how awful she finds the idea of him moving on.

Preserving their friendship is more important though. She’d rather suffer through an awkward conversation and jealousy later on than risk losing Bellamy completely.

It might take some time, but they’ll find their rhythm again, as best friends. She’ll swallow her feelings and they’ll fade, eventually, once they’ve cut out the intimacy. Bellamy doesn’t have to know how deep she’s in.

And Clarke doesn’t have to endure the Other Conversation, where Bellamy tells her he’s sorry, but this is just sex for him. It always has been. She knows without him having to say it. She knows what he told her, from day one.

They’re not on the same page anymore. But Clarke is going to fix that.

Bellamy is already on the roof when she exits the stairwell. He’s leaning against the wall with his back to her, looking out at the stretch of the city below them. She walks up and takes her spot beside him, her hands burrowing in her coat against the frigid November air.

They stand in silence for a minute. Bellamy is the first to break it, a note of suspicion already in his tone. “You’re done avoiding me, then?”

Clarke swallows roughly. She has been. She’s avoided being alone with him since they slept together the last time. Hiding in the safety of their roommates and their friends, turning down his offers to hang-out, get in the shower with him, or even grab lunch in the past week.

She’s hated the distance, but it was necessary. Clarke didn’t trust herself to be alone with him. If the opportunity presented itself, she would cave, kiss him or have sex with him again. Tell herself it was the last time. Again.  

“Yes,” Clarke admits, turning to look at him, the hard line of his jaw and gloved hands curled into fists over the ledge. “I’m sorry, Bell.”

He shakes his head and glances at her, frustration puckering between his brows. “What’s going on, Clarke? I thought we were good.”

“We are,” she murmurs.

“Really?” He scoffs, a bitter sound. She sees the hurt in his eyes. “Because it sure doesn’t feel like it.”

Clarke takes a steadying breath. Her heart bangs in her chest. “I know. I needed some time to myself, to think.”

“Think about what?”

She forces herself to meet his gaze head-on, her face carefully blank. “I think we should go back to being just friends.”

He stares at her like he’s daring her to take it back. When she doesn’t, his lips flatten into a hard line. “You’re not serious.”

“I am,” Clarke says firmly. Inside her pockets, her nails dig into her palms. She can get through this. “On Sunday…that was the last time. I don’t want to do that anymore.”

Disbelief and confusion flicker through his wide eyes. She can see the wheels turning behind him, Bellamy trying to make sense of what’s changed. When his voice finally comes, there’s an undercurrent of regret.

“If this about what I said about your mom—”

Clarke quickly snips that line of thought before he can finish it. She can have him blaming himself. That’s the exactly the problem though. He’s wonderful and sweet and she was helpless against falling for him.

“No, it isn’t that. I just think we want different things now.” Her words are the recited lines she’s practiced in her head all week. Rehearsed, crisp, the exact opposite of her meltdown at her mother’s house. 

“It was good, what we had. But I don’t want to keep screwing around forever.” There’s a grain of truth in that. Casual sex isn’t enough anymore. Not with him. “I want to move on,” she admits softly.

Bellamy turns his face away from her before she can see his reaction. Without thinking, Clarke reaches out for him, her fingers grazing his cheek.

It shocks her when Bellamy recoils away from her hand. His head snaps back toward her and he takes a deliberate step away. His expression is a cold mask, hard in all the places he used to look at her, soft and tender. Unrecognizable.

“ _Don’t_ , Clarke,” he hisses.

Clarke flinches at the sharp lash of his voice. She has to bite the inside of her cheek to stop the tears that rush to her eyes. His rejection is a painful, unexpected blow.

“Bell—” she rasps.

“Is that all?” He demands, like he’s ready to get away from her as soon as possible. “Are you done?”

She can’t let him leave, not like this. “Wait. _Please_ , talk to me. I don’t understand why you’re so upset. We said no strings, right? We’ll just go back to being friends.”

“Sure,” Bellamy agrees bitterly. “ _Friends._ Whatever the hell you want.”

He leaves her standing on the roof, striding away too quickly for her to stop him. Clarke can do nothing but stare at his retreating back, the slam of the stairwell door echoing faintly in her ears.

The blasting cold air on the rooftop seeps into her blood. Clarke is frozen in the same spot. Even if she could move and chase Bellamy down, she isn’t sure he would listen. What could she say? She can’t make sense of his reaction.

The way he flinched away from her is still raw and painful. All she wanted was a clean break. Now, fear takes root in her heart that she’s just ruined something that was once beautiful.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follow me on [tumblr](http://www.kombellarke.tumblr.com) ❤️


	14. A Thin Line Between Love and Hate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy happy Friday babes! As always, I appreciate all your feedback and love for this story. 
> 
> Shoutout to the lovely [Hana](https://useyourtelescope.tumblr.com/) on tumblr for bringing up Afterglow as the song for this fic. I listened to it about 100 times and it's perfect for this chapter. 
> 
> The good news is this is the last angst-heavy chapter. The bad news is...angst. 
> 
> Enjoy!

 

* * *

 

She was in shock following their conversation on the rooftop. But once that passed, Clarke thought she’d give him space to cool off and try to talk to him again.

If Bellamy comes out of his room at all in the next two days, she doesn’t catch him. Their schedules are out of sync without her working and Clarke is half-convinced he’s deliberating avoiding her.

She waits all day for him to get home from Grounders. An ambush it is then.

She’s bored out of her mind at the apartment. Clarke tries to read and keep occupied, but her thoughts always cycle back to Bellamy.

She has an ache in her stomach remembering his expression, the steel mask intended to keep her _out_. 

The cheesy Christmas specials on TV just darken her miserable mood. Nothing else can hold her attention that day, restless to talk to him and works things out.

In the afternoon, she goes to her art class and numbly follows along. Everything she creates looks like shit. Possibly because she feels like shit.

As soon as they’re let out, Clarke grabs something for dinner and heads back to the apartment, eating in her room. Just to torture herself some more, she watches _Titanic_ on her laptop until she hears the front door open and the stomp of Bellamy’s boots.

Her heart stutters out of rhythm. Clarke hastily wipes away her crybaby tears. She always fucking cries watching this movie. When her nose is no longer red, she slips out of her room and comes downstairs.

Disappointment and relief sweep over her when Clarke sees he isn’t alone. Miller is sitting on the couch, his head covered by a familiar beanie.

He’s flipping through the channels, but he turns and smiles at her in greeting. “Hey, Clarke.”

She nods back at him, lingering back by the stairs. Bellamy is in the kitchen, probably preparing snacks. She’s going to have put this off again, until they’re alone.

“My buddy got a bootleg copy of the new X-men movie,” Miller explains. “You wanna watch it with us?”

“No,” Bellamy says, walking in with a bag of chips and tub of guacamole. He doesn’t look at her. “She can’t.”

Clarke feels like she just got slapped. Her shock must show on her face. Miller glances uneasily between the two of them. Bellamy doesn’t acknowledge her existence, setting up their snacks on the coffee table and taking a seat in the recliner.

Her cheeks are burning, hot with shame and hurt. Then Bellamy gruffly tells Miller, “Start the movie.”

Clarke tries not to flinch, not that he'll see it with his back firmly to her. Miller gives her a puzzled, guilty look but she turns away and disappears back upstairs as fast as she can.

She has the rest of the night to stew in the sting of Bellamy’s brush-off. Her confusion grows, as does her indignation. He doesn’t have to treat her like she’s a pariah. Fine, he’s upset she called off the benefits part of their friendship. But there’s no reason to be a dick about it.

Miller doesn’t leave until 1 am. Clarke waits impatiently in her room. Raven and Murphy are back from their night out by then. They’re holed up in Murphy’s room doing things Clarke would rather not think about. She has music playing, just in case.

Finally, Bellamy’s footsteps hit the stairs. Clarke leaves her room and catches him on the way to his.

“Bellamy,” she calls sharply.

His shoulders tense. When he turns around to face her, his mouth is already tight, on the defensive like he’s preparing himself for a fight. “What?”

Clarke shakes her head at him. “Can we _please_ talk about this? Or are you planning on ignoring me forever?”

“Maybe I don’t want to talk,” he retorts. “It’s inconvenient, right?” He continues, bitingly sarcastic. “When someone avoids your existence and doesn’t bother with an explanation?”

“So, what? You’re getting back at me?” She demands, her brows raising incredulously.

Bellamy shrugs. He offers nothing else but a cold glare. It’s infuriating.

Clarke lets out a deep breath. She searches for calm, not wanting to fight with him again. “I’m sorry I did that,” she says, voice soft. “It was cowardly. I didn’t want us to end up…here.”

He nods, sharp. “Right. Well, it’s always about what _you_ want, isn’t it?”

Clarke wrestles back another surge of irritation. “We both agreed to this. In fact, you were the one that made yourself clear. Just sex, remember? We didn’t owe each other anything.”

“You’re right,” Bellamy agrees. “You don’t owe me a damn thing, Clarke. You’re free to move on. Screw whoever you like. I won’t stop you.”

She lets out a frustrated huff. “That isn’t what this is about!”

“Then what’s it about, huh?” He challenges, gesturing sharply at her. “Untangle the mind of Clarke Griffin for me. Because I just don’t get it. What do you want from me? Not my help. You’ve made that clear. Not sex either. So what?”

“You, Bellamy," she says. "Our friendship. That’s what matters to me. Nothing has to change, okay?”

Bellamy stares at her, his eyes hard, calcified with anger. She thinks she starts to see them soften, but he turns his face away, his jaw clenched.

Maybe it’s wishful thinking on her part. She can still feel the crackle of unresolved tension in the air between them.

He speaks to the wall beside them, not to her. “It already has.”

Fear makes her heart pound. She can’t get through the wall he has up. It feels like he’s slipping away from her, retreating further. Clarke can’t stand the thought of losing him because of this.

Bellamy turns away, moving towards his room, away from her. Clarke gets a chill just remembering his retreating back on the roof and cold absence from her life after that.

“So we can’t even be friends now?” She calls after him. “Is that it? Either it’s fucking or nothing at all.” 

Stopping in front of his door, Bellamy faces her, putting on a smirk. It’s humorless, flat like the look in his brown eyes.

“Let’s be real, Clarke. We’ve never been _just_ friends. We won’t be now.”

The door clicks shut behind him. Unlike the slam on the rooftop, this one sounds final, definitive. Her throat tickles from the threat of defeated tears. They’re done. _He’s_ done with her.

  

* * *

 

Overnight, the city has turned into tinsel, sparkling lights, and merriment. There are carols playing on the radio and in every store.

Murphy insists on wearing an ugly Christmas sweater when they go out, much to Raven’s horror. But she still rolls her eyes and kisses him when they cross under the Mistletoe at the Dead Zone’s door.

Everyone else seems to be feeling the holiday spirit, except Clarke and Bellamy.

She’s turning into a Scrooge. She hates the bright lights and the cheery music and decorations everywhere. They seem to mock her with their shiny happiness while she’s swathed in melancholy. Sleeping too much and not eating enough.

Clarke feels like she’s shrinking, disappearing inside herself as she tries to hide from the others. From Raven and Murphy’s new love flashing in their faces. From Harper’s concerned frown as she tries to coax Clarke into eating. From the pressure to _do_ something, fix this somehow.

Bellamy is worse. She’s in her own misery, but his stormy mood punctures every corner of the apartment. His anger is suffocating. They all feel it whenever they go out as a group, the others walking on eggshells to not set him off.

Still, it happens anyway. The first game night since Thanksgiving goes horribly. Bellamy is being, honestly, a prick and Raven gets fed up with it. The two of them get into a fight and Bellamy storms out of Jasper and Monty’s apartment.

“What the fuck is his problem?” Raven seethes to the rest of them, glaring at the closed apartment door.

Clarke hunches as if she can melt into the couch. Guilt brings back the sharp ache to her stomach. This is all her fault. She’s the one he’s pissed off at.

Sitting beside her, Murphy leans in to whisper, “What did you do to him, Princess?”

She flinches. “Don’t call me that. Please.”

Murphy stares at the side of her face. Clarke doesn’t look up from her lap. Her friend is perceptive, but it doesn’t take much to put together something happened between them.

Bellamy isn’t speaking to her. There’s a distance between them now that he doesn’t let her bridge. She isn’t being paranoid this time. He goes out of his way to avoid her.

He spends most of his time out of the apartment, at the gym or drinking with their other friends. She isn’t invited to those outings and he comes home smelling like beer, ignoring her as he trudges upstairs.

When he is home, Bellamy acts if they’re strangers. Existing in separate lives that don’t intersect. He’ll walk out of the kitchen if she enters the room. Passing by her in the hallway, he’ll make sure they never touch.

When they are forced into the same space, his eyes never his meet hers, turning his face away when she looks at him, his jaw a slice of hard glass.

It’s no wonder that she’s withering away when he treats her like she isn’t there, like she’s nothing to him now.

Two weeks after the disastrous rooftop conversation, Clarke is dead asleep in her bed. She is only jostled awake by someone firmly shaking her shoulder. “Clarke.”

Her eyes don’t open. “What?”

“It’s 2 in the afternoon,” Raven informs her. “You’ve slept all day.”

“So?”

She feels the bed shift when Raven’s weight settles down on it. Her roommate’s voice softens. “Can you tell me what’s going on? You’re kind of scaring me. Are you okay?”

No, she’s not okay. And she doesn’t even care. Clarke is slipping into the numbness.

At least in her dreams, she can feel the echo of Bellamy’s touch on her skin, vivid memories of electricity and warmth. When her eyes are closed, he gazes at her like he did before, that beautiful look of affection when he caught her dancing in her room. Back when he used to smile at her, fond, instead of turning himself away in disgust.

Everything is better. She wants to stay asleep.

“Bellamy and I are done,” she says flatly.

“Shit.”

“Go ahead,” Clarke mumbles. “Say you told me so. I’m an idiot for getting involved with him.”

Raven sighs heavily. “I don’t _want_ to be right about that. What happened? Why is Bellamy biting everyone’s head off these days?”

“I don’t know,” she admits, opening her eyes to Raven looking down at her worriedly. “He’s pissed at me for calling it off. He wants nothing to do with me if my legs are closed, I guess.”

Raven shakes her head. “No way. That’s bullshit, Clarke.”  

“He said he’s not interested in staying friends.” Clarke shrugs helplessly. Her eyes burn, but she hasn’t cried in weeks. “You were right. I was stupid for thinking it would be different with us.”

In the end, she’s no better than Echo or Bree or any other girl foolish enough to fall for him. She tried to be smart about this. They had set rules, but somewhere along the way Clarke started bending them. It wasn’t enough. She needed to be closer to him.

Why did Clarke think she was special? This always happens. She always cares more, needs more than the other person is willing to give. And now she’s alone.

Her roommate is quiet for a while. She rests her hand on Clarke’s side, burrowed under the blanket. Clarke blinks drowsily up at the ceiling. It’s like this year has finally caught up with her. She’s tired.

Raven stands up from the bed. “Screw him, then. Murphy and I are getting a Christmas tree for the house. You’re coming with us.”

Clarke grimaces. “Ugh. No.”

Raven glares down at her, planting her hands on her hips. “Griffin, I _will_ get you out of this bed today. Either get up or there’s a bucket of water with your name on it.”

She shudders at the threat of freezing ice water from the sink. Clarke hauls herself out of bed, dragging reluctantly over to her dresser. Her hair is unwashed, but a knit cap takes care of that problem. She bundles herself in layers and boots. Getting dressed to go outside is exhausting.

The three of them take a cab to pick out a tree. There’s a hot chocolate stand by the tree lot and after Murphy complains for the third time about freezing his balls off, Raven orders them hot chocolate to shut him up.

It’s nowhere near as good as Bellamy’s. The thought depresses her. She misses him so much.

Getting a Christmas tree, the decorations, engaging in the holiday spirit—all of it seems so pointless. But they’re here, so Clarke follows along, lets her roommates bicker and nods once they decide on a tree.

Even the sight of the cab driver and Murphy tying the tree to the top of the car doesn’t faze her. Raven laughs at her boyfriend’s efforts. Clarke just wants to go back to bed.

Her wishes are ignored. At the apartment, Clarke is roped into helping them get the tree up the stairs and setting it up in the living room. They order Chinese food for dinner and Raven breaks out the old lights they have in storage to decorate.

The door opens as Raven and Clarke are wrapping the lights around the tree. Murphy sits on the floor with his carton of Moo Shu pork. He’s “supervising” the process. 

Bellamy stomps in, pausing to take in the scene. He’s scowling when Clarke turns her head. Their eyes meet for a split second before he slides his away.

Hurt throbs behind her sternum. He can’t even stand the sight of her.

It shouldn’t come as a surprise after two weeks of this. But every time it feels like a kick to her chest, stealing the breath out of her and leaving a fresh, aching bruise behind.

“There’s Chinese in the kitchen, man,” Murphy tells him in between chewing. “We got you Kung Pao chicken.”

Bellamy barely spares him a nod. He shreds his coat, hanging it up in the closet and slips out of his boots. Clarke can’t draw her eyes away from him. Maybe she’s a glutton for torturing herself.

Her body sings out for him. Longing pierces like needles under her skin. Clarke aches to look into his warm brown eyes again, glowing under his tender stare. She aches to hear his rich laugh and feel his lips stroking hers. More than anything, she wants to talk to him. She wants her best friend back.

Does he miss her at all?

 _Look at me,_ Clarke pleads inside her head. _Look at me, Bell._

He doesn’t. Pretending not to feel her desperate stare pinned to the back of his head, Bellamy ducks into the kitchen. He returns with a can of beer.

Raven frowns at him as he heads toward the stairs. Clarke almost warns her not to provoke him, but she’s too late. “Hey, Blake. How about some help with this tree?”

He scoffs. “Not happening.”

“Christ, babe,” Murphy hisses at her under his breath. “Don’t poke the bear.”

Raven ignores his warning, yelling out to Bellamy, “You know what? I’m getting real sick of your pissy attitude. Get over yourself, Bellamy.”

“Fuck you too, Reyes,” Bellamy bites over his shoulder before he climbs upstairs.

An awkward silence follows in his wake. They say nothing as they return to decorating the small tree. Clarke can still sense the press of Raven’s eyes on her and her thoughts are almost loud enough for Clarke to hear 

Finally, Clarke sighs and steps back from the tree. “Whatever it is, spit it out.”

“You need to talk to him, Clarke,” Raven says. “Work your shit out.”

“I can’t.” Clarke sounds weak despite her best efforts. As defeated as she feels. “He acts like I don’t exist.”

“ _Make_ him listen,” Raven retorts. “I can’t take any more of this. You’re both miserable. You need to find some way to live together before I wrap these string lights around his neck.”

Her roommate's tirade doesn’t have the effect she was probably aiming for. Clarke isn’t compelled to jump into action, demand that Bellamy acknowledge her. She has no desire to fight with him. She’s not strong enough.

It seems to be in her nature to run and hide from the things that scare her most. Another harsh, loathsome look, another spiteful word from the man she loves and Clarke fears she’ll break apart into a million pieces.

“I’m tired, Raven,” Clarke murmurs, rubbing at her burning eyes. “I’m going to bed.”

She falls asleep within minutes of her head landing on the pillow.

In her dreams, they’re on the rooftop. Bellamy draws her in close, his large hand warm on her cheek as he shot-guns smoke into her parted mouth, tinged with musky, herbal scent of weed.

The sun is setting over the city, bathing the rooftop in golden light. The sunlight brings out the shades of chestnut in his eyes, highlighting the galaxy of freckles on his face. He’s all hers again.

She talks to him like she used to for hours, never running out of things to say. He laughs at her crazy anecdotes from when she and Wells were children and shares stories about Octavia.

Clarke brushes back the curls that fall across his forehead. He leans into her touch instead of recoiling. “I miss you, Bell.”

“I know,” he murmurs. His full lips turn down with sadness. “Me too, Princess.”

“I love you,” she says. The words come easy in her dream, falling off her lips like the gentle descent of snowflakes from the sky.

He smiles slightly. His knuckles brush across her cheek in a tender caress. “You know what you mean to me, Clarke. Isn’t that enough?”

Bellamy kisses her and the echo of his words, _isn’t that enough,_ fade as she melts against him. She missed this so much, the stroke of his tongue and his soft curls under her fingers.

He kisses down her neck and she sighs, a sound of both happiness and longing. For a little while, the answer is yes. He is enough.

Until her eyes open to the darkness of her bedroom. The tingle of Bellamy’s lips on hers is gone. She is alone.

Clarke stares up at the ceiling for a moment. The emptiness inside her is so deep it’s like she can’t breathe around it. When she desperately sucks in a breath, her exhale is a sob. At last, she cries.

 

* * *

 

The next time their group is at the Dead Zone, Clarke finds the courage to approach him. It’s been over three weeks of this. Surely, Bellamy can’t stay angry at her forever. They have to move on eventually.

Clarke is sick of being ignored by him. They _are_ friends, even if they’re not sleeping together. Their relationship is more than that. Clarke isn’t going to let Bellamy get away with acting like she doesn’t matter to him.

He’s standing at the bar to order another beer, his third of the night. Clarke slips out of the booth and catches the nod of encouragement Raven gives her.

Her resolve solidifies. Clarke is done hiding from him and feeling sorry for herself. She stalks up to the bar and leans against the counter.

Bellamy stiffens when he notices her. Her long hair grazes his arm and it stings when he moves away, his hand curled into a fist on the counter.

When the hurt wanes, another emotion she almost forgot how to feel takes its place. _Anger_. Enough of this.

Clarke turns her face to glare at him head-on. “I’m not a fucking pariah, Bellamy.”

His throat bobs as he swallows harshly, but he says nothing.

The bartender comes over and Bellamy gives his order. His fingers drum on the bar as the bartender fills a tall glass with beer on tap. Impatient, it seems, to get away from her.

She decides to bite back the hostility for now. Fighting fire with fire is only going to make him more defensive. “How’s Octavia?”

It takes more time than necessary when they’re just standing there. Finally, he mutters, “Fine.”

One word, but it could be a hallelujah chorus. It’s more than he’s said to her in weeks. “Are you going to visit her for Christmas?”

“Yep.”

Clarke nods. “I’ll probably stay here, Skype with Mom. She’s been sober almost a month. Mount Weather seems to be good for—”

“Stop, Clarke,” Bellamy snaps, cutting her off. Her mouth drops open when he rounds on her, his nostrils flared. “Stop acting like everything is okay with us. It’s _not_.”

“I’m trying to make it okay, Bellamy,” she replies. “Can we be adults about this? Let’s just move on.”

He gives her a sharp, angry smile “Can’t live with the consequences of your actions, _Princess_?” He spits the word out, a cruel mockery of the affectionate nickname. “For once, you’re not going to get exactly what you want handed to you. Sucks, huh?”

Clarke cringes. There’s a vicious chord in his voice she hasn’t heard before. She’s suddenly afraid he hates her.

“You don’t mean that,” she says quietly.

“Yeah, I do. It's not up to _you_ to decide how I feel or when I feel it," he snarls at her. "I'm not interested in bullshit small talk. You say you're done with us. So be done, Clarke. Leave me the fuck alone.”

Bellamy takes his beer and brushes past her.

She’s stuck in the same spot, immobilized by the pain that radiates through her. Her blood pounds in her ears, cutting off the sounds of the crowded bar. The wound he left behind takes several moments to fade to a dull ache.

Her anger returns with a thirst to draw blood. There’s a dark urge inside her to retaliate against him. Why should she be the only one to suffer? He’s hurt her a lot recently too.

“Raven was right to warn me to stay away from you,” Clarke calls after him, lining up her shot. “You think _I’m_ bad? All the girls you hook up with are just fuck toys to you.”

Bellamy stops short. He whips back around with fire roaring in his dark eyes. “You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”

Clarke cocks an eyebrow at him. Under the surface, victory rejoices in her chest. She’s going to hurt him back, feed him some of his own cruel medicine.

“That’s what you do, isn’t it? Sleep your way through Polis. First Echo, now me. I said no and your ego can’t handle it. I’m no use to anymore, huh?”

He’s trembling from anger. She can see it. He shakes his head, seemingly at a loss or too furious to speak through his clenched jaw for a moment. “That’s all you think I care about?” Bellamy demands. “Getting my dick wet.”

“Yeah, I do,” Clarke says back coldly, repeating his words to her. “So find someone else to fuck and get over yourself.”

Bellamy stares at her, incredulous and fuming, eyes bulged. She leaves him standing there, stomping past him to resume her seat at their table.

Only Clarke doesn’t want to look at his face anymore that night. She throws back the rest of her drink and makes half-assed excuses to their friends, gathering her purse and coat. Before Bellamy has even sat down, she’s storming out the door into the freezing night air.

Thankfully, the hot anger burning in her veins is enough to keep her warm during the cab ride. _What a dick,_ Clarke seethes to herself.

She doesn’t want to believe that Bellamy only cares about sex. He’s not selfish. Wary about being vulnerable, getting to close to people, yes, but not heartless.

Yet here he is, pitching a fit because she decided to stop putting out. Throwing cruel words in her face because she dares to suggest they go back to being exclusively friends.  

And deep down, under the iced-over surface of her anger, she’s heartbroken.

It isn’t supposed to be like this. Bellamy cares about her. How could he fly out to help her deal with her mother when she needed him and _not_ care? How could he cry into her arms and ask her to go with him to meet with his estranged sister?

Clarke discretely swipes away an escaped tear as she exits the car. She doesn’t want to be alone right now. She gave the driver instructions to Roan’s luxury, high-rise condo. She really hopes he’s home.

The perky attendant at the receptionist’s desk asks for the condo name.

“King,” Clarke says, sniffling.

She lets the attended call up and gives her name. Clarke is given the okay to enter the sleek glass elevator where she presses the button for the 22nd floor. Her ears pop during the long ride up.

Roan has the door already open, waiting for her to arrive. He takes one look at her and his stoic expression creases with concern. “You alright, Griffin?”

She can’t hide her quivering bottom lip, on the verge of tears. Clarke shakes her head.

He ushers her inside, his hand gentle on her back and takes her coat off for her. Clarke unzips out of her heeled leather boots, pressing her toes into the softness of his carpeted living room.

“I’ll fix you a drink,” Roan offers, en route to the kitchen.

“Long Island—”

“Ice Tea,” he finishes, smirking at her. “Yeah, I know.”

“Strong,” Clarke adds.

She ventures over to the floor-to-ceiling windows at the back of the condo, standing in the glistening light that spills in from the city skyscrapers. Even without the stars, the view is stunning. The sky is an inky black, comforting in its stillness.

Clarke still prefers the quiet, open space of the rooftop, though.

After a few minutes, Roan comes up beside her with her drink, a slice of lemon wedged to the top of the glass. Wordlessly, she takes it from his hand and swallows several sips. She can taste the strong tang of vodka and tequila.

Roan waits, holding his silence beside her as Clarke chugs down her first drink. She hasn’t eaten in hours and the alcohol rushes quickly to her head. She needs it.

“You wanna talk about it?”

She appreciates his flat, almost indifferent tone. Clarke knows that to Roan, it really makes no difference. He’ll make her drinks and let her stay without any expectation that she pours her heart out to him.

They’ve always been uncomplicated. Sleeping together once hasn’t changed anything, both of them having the understanding that the sex, although good, was just that.

With Bellamy, it wasn’t like that. Clarke can admit that now. She couldn’t stop thinking about him, anticipating the next time. Her attraction to Bellamy pulsed like a living thing in her body from the day she met him.

It only grew stronger, fed itself on jealousy and affection, playful teasing and shared emotional vulnerability, long talks, and sex that became about intimacy.

He was right, damn him. They’ve never been just friends.

“Another drink first,” Clarke answers, handing him the empty glass.

They move to the L-shaped white couch. Roan pours himself a glass from the pitcher of Long Island Ice Tea. They sip at their drinks and Clarke vents to him about the last month, how everything unraveled with Bellamy up to tonight and their spiked, angry words at each other.

The other plus of talking to Roan is that he’s _her_ friend. Not shared with her roommates or Bellamy. He’s an unbiased outsider without any personal investment in what’s going on and that’s refreshing.

Clarke feels a bit better when she’s done. Unburdened. She wipes away the tears she’s shred and now her eyelids are heavy, weighed down by drunken sleepiness.

Roan listens to her tirade. He doesn’t offer advice or false comfort on a fucked-up situation, which is just what she was looking for coming here. “Feel better?”

She nods, grimacing as she tries to smile and fails. “Yeah. Thanks.”

He takes their drained glasses and moves them to the sink. Her head droops on the back of the couch as she listens to the water running and then the fridge closing, putting away the pitcher.

Roan returns with a cashmere blanket and a set of pillows. She starts to thank him for letting her crash, but he waves her off. “Don’t mention it.”

Clarke uses the guest bathroom to brush her teeth with his spare toiletries. She strips down to her sweater to sleep in, removing her jeans, and bundles herself on the couch.

“I’ve got a flight to catch tomorrow at 9,” Roan tells her. “Get some sleep, Griffin.”

The bedroom door slides closed behind him. Clarke lies there for a minute before she notices the buzzing of her phone. She retrieves it from her jean pocket and finds a few unanswered texts.

 **Raven:** _Where the fuck are you??? Are you safe?_

 **Murphy** : _if this is clarke’s kidnapper, keep her ;-)_

 **Harper:** _You okay? You looked upset when you left. Here if you want to talk._

Guilt swims lazily through her under the haze of alcohol, but still there. Clarke texts her roommates that she’s crashing at Roan’s and she’s fine. She thanks Harper for her offer before setting the phone down, ready to pass out.

She’s just fallen into a light sleep when her phone vibrates on the glass coffee table. Reluctantly, Clarke makes herself check, just in case it’s important. Her screen reads past 2 in the morning.

It’s a text from Bellamy: _that was fast. enjoy your rebound._

Clarke squints at the screen in puzzlement. When understands clicks into place, she curses her roommates inside her head. One of them told Bellamy she’s at Roan’s. Of fucking course he thinks she’s there to sleep with him.

She throws her phone down on the carpeted floor. Clarke rolls over, tugging the blanket up over her head. She regrets the night she kissed Bellamy in the pool.

 

* * *

 

Christmas day arrives. Clarke still isn’t in much of the spirit this year, but she’s grateful that Bellamy left the day before to spend the holiday with his sister.

Things have only gotten worse between them since their fight at the Dead Zone. The silence is broken and Bellamy makes his resentment towards her clear with spiteful comments and underhand insults whenever has the chance.

Clarke fires back almost every time, unable to hold her tongue anymore. It hurts her just as much to wound him, to see when her cruelty brings a flash of pain to his eyes before he covers it up with anger and goes at her again, guns blazing.

They’re at a worse place than strangers. Now enemies who _used_ to care about each other. All those good memories and feelings can be turned into weapons. Their group hang-outs and game nights become opportunities to tear each other down.

A twisted part of Clarke _likes_ the animosity because at least Bellamy isn’t ignoring her. At least part of him still cares.

Their friends are all baffled by their new hostility, with the exception of Murphy and Raven. They all do their best to stay clear of the warpath.

On Christmas morning, Clarke Skypes with her mother. Abby can tell something is wrong, but she excuses it as being upset about her lack of a job at the moment. They reminisce on happy holiday memories and although it’s awkward ignoring the elephant in the middle of their conversation, it’s good to talk to her.

Clarke has breakfast with her roommates and they spend the day lazing about, watching _The Grinch_ and Clarke’s favorite, _Love Actually_. After the movies, Clarke gives the lovebirds some privacy to exchange their gifts.

They have a no-gift policy with the rest of their group. Instead, they’re planning a hangout later that day. Maya has invited them all over to her parents’ place, which has an enclosed patio and a heated hot tub for them to enjoy.

Bellamy returns on the 27th. Clarke would be lying if she said she hadn’t missed him every day he was gone. The missing him and what they had doesn’t stop, no matter how furious they are with each other.

Then Clarke is returning from a girls’ night out with Raven, Harper, and Emori. Her feet ache from all the dancing at _Flow_ and she has her heels hooked over her arm as she climbs the stairs.

She’s almost to her room when her ears pick up on the sound of muffled moaning, heard above the sound of a headboard being knocked into a wall.

Clarke goes still and makes the mistake of looking up.

Bellamy’s door is open. She has a clear view of his bed and the figures writhing on top of the messy sheets. A platinum-haired girl is facing her on her knees, her heavy tits jiggling from the force of thrusts. Bellamy’s hands dig into the flesh at her hips.

He stops murmuring to the girl when he feels her gaze. Bellamy’s eyes flick up and meet hers.

Clarke goes cold, her blood turning to ice in her veins. Their stare holds and it’s like the magnetism of his dark eyes traps her in place. She can’t move.

Bellamy’s mouth curves into a cruel smirk.  _You getting this, Clarke?_ That look taunts her. 

Not breaking their stare, he snatches a handful of the girl’s pale blonde hair and tips her head up to speak against her throat. “Yeah, babe? Tell me it feels good.”

He reaches out to palm her breast, squeezing at her nipple. The girl moans for him. "Bellamy!" 

Hearing this stranger's high voice say his name breaks Clarke's horrified trance. Her legs wobble and it feels like gravity has turned against her, trying to force her to her knees. 

Clarke doesn’t know how, but manages to uproot herself and flee the hallway. Tears obscure her vision and she stumbles blindly out of the apartment. Her shaky legs carry her to the rooftop.

The bite of December air brings swift goosebumps to her skin, wearing only a dress and her heels.

Clarke doesn’t care as she takes a seat on the ledge, the exact spot she met Bellamy in the summer. Her arms cross over her stomach, hunching against the chill. She’ll freeze out here, but it’s better than being in _there_ , watching Bellamy fuck someone else.

It’s happening. Bellamy is replacing her, finding another warm body. Their memories will be just memories, forgotten and worn with time. She is no more than any other hook-up of his.  

 _He’s doing what you told him to,_ a voice reminds her.

Right. She had told him to move on. How stupid that was of her. She wasn’t prepared for how much this would fucking hurt. Raw pain like an exposed nerve being touched.

The stairwell door creaks open behind her. Clarke doesn’t turn her head, staring sullenly at the night sky as cold tears drip down her cheeks.

A warm coat drapes over her shoulders. “Is this a pity party? I should have brought the balloons.”

Clarke scoffs. “Go away, Murphy.”

He sits down beside her. “That’s the problem with cockroaches,” he comments wryly. “You can’t get rid of us.”

Murphy tucks his knees into his chest, sitting there quietly as Clarke cries, shoulders trembling. She clutches at the wool material of the coat in her fists. The pain doesn’t end. She’s bleeding all over the rooftop.

Images flash behind her eyes like a personal nightmare. Bellamy in bed with this faceless girl, their naked bodies writhing. He whispers to her and Clarke knows all the words by heart, the rough cadence of his voice.

“I’m an idiot,” she says at last, her breath hitching unevenly. “I fell for my fuck buddy.”

Murphy sucks his teeth. “Rookie mistake.”

“I get it now,” Clarke continues. “Why Echo left like she did. It hurts too much to be around him, feeling like this.”

“Look, Bellamy’s overcompensating right now cause you blew him off. He’ll fuck it—sorry, get it out of his system. Then you guys will be fine.”

She doesn’t believe for a second that it’s that simple. They’ve been vicious toward each other for weeks now, aiming for the other’s weak spots. As much as she wants to, Clarke doubts they can get back to where they were.

That bridge is already burned down.

“Don’t run away from this,” Murphy tells her. “You’re stronger than that, Griffin. I’ve seen what you’re made of.”

Clarke wipes angrily at her tears. “What do you want from me? What am I supposed to do now? He _hates_ me.”

“No, he doesn’t,” Murphy disagrees. “He might _want_ to, but he can’t hate you.”

The cold air is still stinging into her skin. Clarke scoots closer to him and lays her head on Murphy’s shoulder, sharing his body heat and his comfort.

   

* * *

 

The day before New Year’s Eve, Clarke gets a phone call from Roan.

“St. Barts, baby,” he greets. “St. Barts.”

Clarke’s brow furrows. “I’m sorry, is that supposed to mean something?”

“We’re going there for New Years. My family owns a villa on the island.”

“Of course you do,” she mutters. “Well, enjoy your tropical paradise while we freeze our asses off here.”

Roan chuckles in her ear. “You’re going too, Griffin. Some friends and I are flying out at noon. I got you a plane ticket.”

“What?” Clarke feels about three steps behind in this conversation.

“You’re going,” Roan repeats slowly. “Pack a bag. Throw in a couple of bikinis. I’ll pick you up in an hour.”

The line clicks. Clarke lowers her phone and gapes at it for a minute.

Her first instinct is to say no. She can’t just up and leave on a spontaneous trip to St. Barts. But as her mind gradually wraps around the idea, Clarke realizes she has no reason to reject it.

She has nothing keeping her rooted to Polis for the next few days. Roan paid for her plane ticket and he has the funds to take care of their accommodations on the trip, so it’s not like she has to worry about dipping into her savings.

Clarke decides to stop thinking about it so hard. She’s being handed over an exchange from the cold winter weather and miserable state in their apartment to a luxury beach vacation in the warm, tropical Caribbean.

She does as she’s instructed, quickly throwing a duffel bag together. She packs for warmer weather, tosses in some paperbacks to read on the beach and her toiletries.

As the hour approaches, the excitement starts to crackle in her belly. She hasn’t had much to look forward to lately. This getaway is exactly what she needs. In the new year, Clarke is planning to start her job hunt and all the stress that comes with it.

It’s probably a good idea to get out of Polis for a while too. Bellamy has slipped back into his old ways, bringing back girls to their place a few times a week. Even the music Clarke plays to drown out the sex noises isn’t enough to block out what they’re doing on the other side of the wall.

Roan sends her a text to let her know he’s downstairs. Clarke scribbles a quick note for her roommates, tapes it to the fridge, and she’s out the door.

It’s a four-hour flight to St. Barts. Their group is seated in first-class, which she has never experienced before.

Clarke reads her book in her cushy chair and has a regular ice tea while Roan and his cousin, Alek, order a bottle of Dom Perignon. The three other girls on the trip are friends, sitting together and gossiping during the flight over glossy Vogue magazines. 

Alek is more like a Greek Adonis with his olive skin, bright white smile and tall, muscular body. Clarke makes the observation with a clinical eye, noting his beauty without any attraction stirring inside her.

When they touch down on the island, Clarke only has a single text from Raven: _Bitch._ Followed by: _Have a good time._

The villa that the King family owns has a breathtaking view of palm trees and cerulean blue ocean water with private beach access. There are seven bedrooms, plus a master suite and the villa itself is luxurious with every possible amenity.

Clarke feels like it’s all wasted on her. She does her best to smile and keep up an eager front for Roan’s sake since he invited her.

She changes into her swimsuit and joins the others on the deck by the infinity pool. The cold cocktail in her hand and the warm sun’s rays does little to dislodge the sadness that’s settled deep inside her.

The other splash in the water, their laughter, and music playing loudly, fully immersed in their paradise. Clarke feels like she’s trapped on the other side of a glass, alone.

She can’t look at the pool without remembering her first kiss with Bellamy. Turning her attention to her book is just as useless. It’s a paperback she borrowed from his bookshelf and as soon as she gets drawn into the story, she’ll think, _I can’t wait to talk to Bellamy about this._

Then Clarke will remember they aren’t talking.

So she drinks and gets herself buzzed enough to put a haze of alcohol between herself and her heartache.

 She bathes herself in tanning lotion and lays out on a lounge chair, drifting in and out in between flipping through magazines.

The girls on the trip are nice enough, welcoming as they get ready for dinner. The redhead, Elodie, loans Clarke a pink beach dress that she insists will look flattering on her.

When Clarke comes downstairs, there’s a moment where she swears she sees _Bellamy_ seated on the sofa. He looks up at her from under his dark curls, his full lips pulled sideways in a flirty smirk.

_“You look good, Princess.”_

She blinks and no, it’s just Alek grinning at her with a too-white smile. Clarke nods, not hearing whatever he said, if anything, and passes by him to the door.

They have a delicious surf and turf dinner at a restaurant close by, all paid for by the King family’s account. Clarke would feel bad if Nia hadn’t fired her and if they weren’t loaded. Instead of feeling guilty, she enjoys the free fresh lobster.

They all go out dancing after dinner. Roan has the pretty brunette girl, Nina, fused with him on the dance floor while Clarke moves with Elodie and Heather. Alek dances with each of them, moving with surprising rhythm for his height.

At Clarke’s turn, he leans in close to whisper in her ear, “You’re beautiful, Clarke.”

She wishes she felt something. Anything.

All Clarke manages is a plastic smile as he spins her outward, her hair fanning out around her.

After being sunbaked for hours and going out to the nightclub, she’s ready to crash when they get back to the villa at 3 am. A deep, blank sleep absent from the memories of her best friend.

New Year’s Eve is even more relaxing. They all sleep in as late as they wish, pouring into the kitchen for coffee and breakfast prepared by the private chef. A full spread of waffles, bacon, eggs, fruit, and yogurt.

Clarke has her beach bag packed with a book and her music. She snaps on her sunglasses and heads down with Elodie and Heather, chatting as they walk down to the sand. She isn’t surprised to find out Nina is sleeping in Roan’s suite when they leave.

Elodie suggests booking a spa treatment that afternoon and Clarke agrees to go with them. At the very least, she can fix her disastrous nails while the girls get massages.

Lying in the sand, Clarke tries to let herself go, just be _present_ where she is. Not wondering what Bellamy is doing then. If he’s thinking about her.

Of course he isn’t. If she is on his mind, he’s probably grateful she’s out of the apartment, out of sight. More likely, he’s too busy with some beautiful, naked girl on her back to be thinking about her.

Tears wet her eyes and Clarke chides herself to stop crying. She’s on a tropical beach vacation. She should be having the time of her life.

Instead, she’s glancing at her phone again. Still no messages from him. Not even a snide comment about Roan’s wealth.

Clarke knows she’s reached a new low when she ignores the ocean view in front of her to stalk Bellamy on social media. He posts about once in a millennium but Raven has a photo up that he’s tagged in.

It’s from the night before, a group shot of everyone. Clarke recognizes the background of Harper and Miller’s place. Raven is taking the shot of them, Murphy’s lips pressed to her cheek as she makes a scrunchy face at the camera.

Clarke manages a small smile for them. Then her eyes land on Bellamy, on the end, almost out of the shot completely. He’s not even looking at the camera but somewhere else out of frame, disconnected. His expression is flat. Miserable.

It’s like looking into a mirror of how she feels.

“Okay,” a voice says, leaning over her. Heather. “Which one of these assholes are you crying over?”

On her other side, Elodie asks, “Is the pretty brunette? Damn. She’s a stunner.”

Clarke snaps out of her pathetic pining, wiping at her damp eyes. “No, that’s just my roommate.”

Elodie’s green eyes hold on hers, shining with sympathy. “Which one then, hon?”

She doesn’t bother denying that she was just crying over an Instagram post. Clarke points at the edge of the photo at Bellamy.

The two girls zoom in to get a better look at him. Heather glances at her. “Your ex?”

“Sort of,” Clarke mutters.

She clucks her tongue. “Not for nothing, but, he looks as bad as you do.”

That doesn’t bring her any comfort. Clarke doesn’t know if it would be worse to see him with a girl in his lap, smiling without a care in a world.

No, this is worse, she decides. Seeing Bellamy upset hurts more than anything. And she knows it’s her fault.

Either he’s still brooding about their last vicious words to each other or maybe a part of him misses her too. What they used to be.

The girls order her a Mai Tai from the bar and Clarke turns to drinking again, numbing herself. The excuse that she’s on vacation is just that—an excuse.

Clarke prefers the soft buzz cushioning her emotions to the rawness of sobriety.

When she’s drunk, it makes the pain a little more bearable. A little easier to live with the memory of the disgust on Bellamy’s face at the bar and the dark loathing in his eyes when he rounded on her.

_“So be done, Clarke. Leave me the fuck alone.”_

Clarke plugs in her earphones to drown out his voice.

 

* * *

 

An hour away from the New Year.

Clarke doesn’t know where the time has gone. Suddenly, she’s on the floor of the living room, laughing hysterically at Roan’s impressions. Her head is cradled in Alek’s lap, too heavy to hold up on her own.

They’re playing some kind of board game, all of them too drunk to remember the rules properly so they’re making shit up. Roan is acting out something and Elodie is yelling out answers, her volume gaining every time she guesses incorrectly.

“Goddamnit, El!” Alek cries in faux-frustration before joining in on Clarke’s laughter. He has a lovely, faint accent from growing up in Thessaloniki.

During Heather’s turn, Clarke struggles to her feet and stumbles her way into the kitchen where the good champagne is. The room tilts unevenly.

“Oh, shit,” Clarke says before the floor is rushing up to greet her.

A strong pair of arms prevent her from falling over. Her heart flips before she hears Alek in her ear, “Careful, angel.”

Clarke turns in his arms, balancing herself on Alek’s solid chest. “Oops,” she laughs. “My hero. I should be calling _you_ angel.”

Her voice is slurred but somehow he understands her. He smiles, touching the curls framing her face. “No, you are the angel because of your hair and big blue eyes. So innocent.”

A smirk forms on her lips. Clarke leans her hips into him, scratching her nails down his chest. “Yeah, wanna bet?”

It’s not easy to tell with how distorted the world is, but she thinks she sees a glint of surprised interest spark his hazel eyes. Clarke hooks her hand around the back of his neck and tugs into down into a wet kiss.

He tastes like sharp citrus, like champagne as her tongue dips into his mouth. He smells good, a hint of woodsy cologne coming off his skin. Alek kisses her back and she has herself nearly fooled that she’s enjoying it.

It’s just a kiss. This is fine. Not every touch is going to lead to electricity and fire kindling in her blood.

He’s not a bad kisser, exactly. Just lacking the aggression that she likes. Clarke has to be the aggressor as she guides his hands to her ass. Finally, Alek gets with the program and starts groping her.

“Get a room!” One of the girls yells, giggling.

“Seriously, Griffin,” Roan calls, sounding amused. “There’s plenty to choose from. Take that somewhere else.”

Clarke breaks away from him, wiping at her slick lips. She shoots the others the bird and snatches Alek’s hand, tugging them in the direction of one of the bedrooms.

She thinks the one they end up in his. The room is dim, lit only from the neon glow of the pool through the sliding patio doors and windows. They kiss and fumble in the dark in their hurry to strip each other out of their clothes.

Under the drunk haze, Clarke feels a tiny hum of excitement returning to her dull veins. It’s been too long since someone’s touched her, _wanted_ her. What she needs is the fun of casual sex, a good orgasm to break her out of her funk.

They make it to the queen-sized bed, the sheets cool underneath them. Clarke still has her bra and thong on while Alek keeps his briefs.

She isn’t sure what the hold-up is. Alek is sure taking his time, kissing her neck and the top of her breasts. Maybe this is what other girls like, but Clarke is impatient to get on with it. 

She tries to yank Alek back up to her mouth, her hands fisted in his hair. He winces at her tight grip and chuckles lightly, his teeth glinting in the dark. “Easy, angel.”

Clarke tries not to huff. She doesn’t want easy. She wants to be  _taken_ with a passion that echoes off the walls and leaves a map of bruises on her skin.

“Come on,” she urges, nipping at Alek’s bottom lip and pulling with her teeth. “Fuck me like you mean it, baby.”

She can make out the twitch of Alek’s sculpted eyebrow and his smirk. “Oh, the pretty girl has a dirty mouth?”

“You have no idea,” Clarke laughs.

As they kiss sloppily, Alek’s hands run across her skin. The sensation is strange. His palms are softer than hers. She’s missing the callouses of large, familiar hands touching her body in all the right places.

Alek breaks away from her to retrieve a condom from his bag. All of the arousal she worked up with their kissing is gone. She’s not panting for him, desperate to feel him on top of her. In fact, Clarke doesn’t want him to touch her at all.

This is wrong. All wrong. He’s not Bellamy.

With that realization of what she really wants—him and no one else—comes a hot rush of tears to her eyes. Shame and sadness and nausea from the drinks all roll over, bulldozing her.

“I’m sorry,” Clarke blurts, springing upward. “I can’t—I can’t do this.”

She scrambles off the bed, reaching blindly for her dress on the floor and sprints barefoot out of the room, nearly colliding with the wall.

“What?” Alek’s confused voice follows her. “Clarke!”

Somehow, Clarke makes it to her room, slams the door shut and reaches the in-suite bathroom in time before she’s sick. Clinging to the toilet bowl, on her knees, she has a piercing moment of clarity to think back on her fucked-up choices.

Her real regret isn’t kissing Bellamy that night or giving in to a temptation that felt bigger than herself, inevitable. She regrets not giving him her naked truth and trusting him with it.

Whatever happened between them after her confession, it has to be better than being here. 

Tears flood and pour down her face. She can’t go back. She can’t undo breaking what they once had or erase all of the horrible things they’ve said in anger.

Clarke is terrified that she’s lost him and that makes her cry harder.

Drunk, sick and sobbing in a strange bathroom. What a way to end what has been both the worst and best year of her life. This must be what rock bottom feels like.

Clarke pushes herself off the floor and searches for her phone in the room, finding it plugged into the charging station. She can’t make things worse between them and that is sound logic in her drunk mind as she calls Bellamy’s number.

Three long rings before the line clicks.

“Hello?” A pause. “Clarke?”

She inhales sharply as chills sweep down her spine.

His voice is the milky morning light spilling in from a hotel room, wrapped up warm and safe. It’s the sound of pelting rain on the Jeep’s roof and the playful intonation of “ _where to, miss_ ”. It’s the taste of her favorite hot chocolate spiked with rum and spices on a crisp Fall evening.

She hears the noise in the background, what might be a TV and a trace of Octavia’s voice. Still, she feels more connected to him miles away than anything else here.

“Tell me you don’t hate me, Bell,” Clarke pleads. Her voice is no more than a croak.

Bellamy sighs. “Clarke, are you drunk?”

“I’m sorry,” she sobs. “I didn’t mean for everything to get so screwed up with us.” Her breath hitches, speaking through her tears. “It’s all my fault.”

It’s quiet for a moment before he mutters, almost too low for her to hear, "It's not all your fault." 

"Yes, it is," Clarke argues. "I'm the—" 

Someone pounds on her door and calls her name. It might be Alek. She ignores him. 

“Where are you?” Bellamy demands. 

“St. Barts,” she says, hiccupping.

“ _Where?”_ He presses. “Are you at a bar or—”

“I’m in my room. The floor, to be exact. I can’t seem to be able to stand up.”

He says nothing for a minute this time. Clarke can practically feel the crackle of his annoyance down the phone line. Either the fact that she’s on a luxury beach vacation with Roan or that she’s drunk-dialing him. Maybe both.

“Bellamy, are you still there?”

“I’m here.”

“I’m sorry,” she says again, slightly less wobbly. “Do you hate me?”

Another long pause. She imagines his tight grip on his phone, glaring at the lilac walls of Octavia’s apartment. The agitated twitch of his jaw as he decides if he should answer her at all.  

“No,” he says at last. “I don’t hate you.”

Clarke exhales in relief. “You’re not lying, right?”

“I’ve never lied to you, Clarke.”

Right. She’s the liar. Not him.

The only thing worse than hate that Clarke can imagine is indifference. She doesn’t have the courage to ask him if he still cares about her. She’ll take the gruff irritation over nothing at all.

Clarke thinks of something to say, to keep him on the line when it goes silent. “I think it’s midnight here.”

She hears the vague shouts of a countdown during their conversation, then cheering. None of which interests her.

That makes it nine o’clock in Polis.

“Are you having fun?” Bellamy asks, a rhetorical question soaked in bitterness. She hates that _this_ in their new normal.

“No,” Clarke says honestly. “I got drunk just to forget how much fun I’m _not_ having. I miss you.”

It slips out of her unbidden, but she doesn’t regret it. The truth.

Bellamy’s breathing shifts just slightly in her ear. He doesn’t say it back and she understands, but it still hurts.

His breathing is comforting as Clarke curls up on the bed, on top of the covers. She keeps her phone pressed to her ear as her eyes droop, sleep tugging her under like the pull of ocean waves.

When she wakes up in the morning, a pounding headache beats inside her skull and her mouth tastes like something has died in it. Clarke groans miserably into her pillow, rolling over.

She hears the thump of her phone hitting the floor. Then Clarke’s remembers her late call to Bellamy. Blearily, she grabs her phone and squints at the screen.

Their call ended at 12:31. They didn’t talk for that long. Clarke knows, a slight smile curling her lips, that Bellamy stayed on the line until she fell asleep.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading loves. I promise we're almost to the happy ending. 
> 
> Here's my [tumblr](http://www.kombellarke.tumblr.com) ❤️


	15. Maybe, Maybe, Maybe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi babes! As always, you are lovely and your comments/reactions make my week. 
> 
> So, my plan was to post this chapter earlier this week. I didn't want to leave you all hanging after a rough chapter. 
> 
> But even when writing and editing yesterday, it still wasn't where I wanted it to be. Sorry for the delay guys, but this fic is my baby. I can't rush it before it's ready. I just _can't_. 
> 
> **Note:** Any hate in the comments will be deleted. Don't like, don't read. It's that simple. 
> 
> Anyway, this story has been nominated for a few BFWA's and I'm so, so grateful to all of you! The Bellarke fandom is the most talented and warmest fam I've had the pleasure of being a part of. Thank you, loves. 
> 
> And if you haven't, check out the other fics that have been nominated! They're so many good ones to read. 
> 
> Enjoy!

 

* * *

 

Clarke takes a deep breath of salty sea air. She believes there’s something purifying about the beach like she can emerge from the ocean and let her pain slide off of her like water.

A new year means a new beginning. A fresh start. The first blank page on a calendar with so much room for change, growth, rebirth.

She stands on the beach, the tide lapping at her exposed toes, and looks out over the last of the sun dipping into the horizon. Alone with the sunset, Clarke makes a promise to herself.

This year is going to be for transparency. Living honestly, with no more running or hiding. She’s going to live in her naked truth, whatever that may mean.

The thought of Bellamy is a ripple in her sense of peace.

Over the past few days, Clarke has had a lot of time to think. To process. She’s alternated between fiery surges of anger for the way Bellamy has hurt her so callously and sadness in remembering what they had before, what they’ve lost.

He’s called every day since New Year’s Eve. Sometimes twice a day. But Clarke hasn’t answered. She isn’t ready to talk to him and she doesn’t know what she’d say if they did. Calling him that night was a moment of weakness. She’s not going to make that mistake again, get sucked back into their past.

It’s time to move on.

Their last night on St. Bart’s, a few residents put together a bonfire at the beach. Beer flows freely. There’s the taste of smoke in the air and the stars glisten above them.

For the first time in a while, Clarke is drinking just to have fun. Not to forget or to drown her sorrows. She dances with Nina, Elodie, and Heather to the music someone has playing and her laughs come easy instead of being forced.

Roan saddles up to her, throwing a heavy arm around her shoulder. “There she is,” he murmurs into her ear.

Clarke snorts. “What?”

He steals a sip of her beer and smirks when she swats at his chest. “Your real smile. It’s nice to see it again.”

She swallows her drink, having nothing to say to that. She didn’t have anyone fooled lately with how unhappy she’s been.

Roan turns to whistle at Nina nearby, getting her attention. He tosses her his phone. “Hey. Take a picture of us for me.”

“Haven’t we taken enough pictures?” Clarke asks.

“Trust me,” he says. There’s a wicked glint in his eye that suggests he’s up to something.

Still, Clarke isn’t expecting it when he slides his arm around her waist and dips her, his mouth surging on hers.

She’s frozen for a moment in shock. Then Roan brings her upright again and Clarke lets out a surprised laugh, her head rushing.

“Okay, what the hell was that?”

Roan nods his chin at the phone. “Revenge.”

Clarke doesn’t follow at first. She thinks he’s talking about getting revenge on Nina, which makes no sense. The girl is grinning at the photos she took, unbothered.

Roan walks over to see them and Clarke follows, standing over Nina’s shoulder. The first photo is hot. Roan even hitched her leg around his hip and she’s clinging onto his neck for balance, captured mid-kiss.

The second photo has Clarke genuinely laughing. She looks tan and happy, color in her cheeks, and her blonde hair in natural waves from the ocean water. Roan is smirking down at her, shirtless in his swimming trunks.

 _Revenge._ Suddenly, Clarke understands what her friend is after.

“Petty bitch,” she says in admiration. Roan smirks at her and she nods at him. “Post them.”

It’s not healthy and probably goes against the fresh start she’s trying to make. But it does feel good to know this pictures are going to get under Bellamy’s skin. Clarke tells herself it’s her last act of getting even. She doesn’t want to cause any more hurt.

As the bonfire party is winding down, Clarke slips into the house to retrieve a piece of clothing from her bag. It’s one of Bellamy’s shirts. She’s been wearing in to sleep for a while now, stolen from him when they were still hooking-up.

Clarke throws the shirt into the fire. She stands back, her arms crossed and smoke stinging her eyes as she watches it burn.

She knows it’s not as simple as throwing out his things to find closure. This is just the first step in letting go. She can’t hold onto what’s dead and gone.

 

* * *

 

Clarke almost feels like a different person when she returns to Polis a week into January. There is still weight she carries on her heart and scars that haven’t healed, but she’s shed some of the burden.

It’s midday by the time she makes it back to the apartment. She hears and finds Murphy and Raven at the table in the kitchen, eating lunch together.

Clarke grins. She missed their faces.

Raven mirrors her bright smile when she sees her. “You’re back! God, look how tan you are!”

Murphy twists around in his chair to appraise her, forming a smirk. “Look, it’s Malibu Barbie.”

She laughs to herself as she hops up onto the counter and starts filling them in on her trip. Raven suggests they take a “family” beach trip this year and Clarke is definitely on board with that.

Her friends spent their New Year’s here, drinking champagne and watching the fireworks from the rooftop.

“Oh,” Raven says faux-casually, “And Monty proposed to Harper. They’re engaged.”

“Oh my god,” Clarke gasps. Raven nods back at her with a grin. She’s thrilled for them.

The conversation dwindles down and Clarke pretends she doesn’t see the pointed look the couple exchanges. Finally, Raven turns her eyes back to her, her brow wrinkled with concern. “So, how are you? Really?”

Immediately, Clarke catches on to what she’s asking. The topic in the room the three of them are _not_ mentioning.

“I’m better,” she says, smiling slightly. It isn’t forced.

“You look it,” Murphy says. He gives her a nod of approval. “Nice bonfire pics, by the way.”

“Ah.” Clarke tucks her hair behind her ear, a bit self-conscious now. “So you guys saw those?”

“We all did.”

His eyes answer the question she can’t bring herself to ask. Yes, Bellamy saw them.

Raven studies her and her anger catches like a wildfire. “I could just _kill_ Bellamy for what he—”

She’s cut off by Murphy nudging her leg under the table. Raven shoots him an annoyed look at being interrupted.

“What?” She demands. “Are we not gonna talk about it? That was such a dick move!”

Clarke isn’t too surprised her roommates know what happened before she left. It’s not like they have secrets for very long in their place.

That scene in the hallway through Bellamy’s open door is a wound that has been left festering. It still pulses and throbs when she remembers. She’s going to have to address it eventually.

“It was,” Clarke agrees. “But I’d rather not talk about it.”

Thankfully, Raven doesn’t push despite the obvious rage simmering behind her eyes.

Murphy turns to face her again and says, “If it helps at all, Reyes and I both ripped him a new one for that. He knows he fucked up bad, Clarke.”

“Well, that’s something,” she mutters. Clarke does appreciate them standing up for her. “Is he here?”

Murphy shakes his head. “He’s at his sister’s.”

“That’s better, actually, that he’s not here. I want to talk to the two of you alone.”

Raven and Murphy both pause at her serious tone. It’s almost funny how the two of them regard her with matching suspicious looks.

Clarke twists her hands in her lap. She’s made up her mind, but she knows this isn’t going to go over well. Her throat is bone-dry and she tries to swallow through it.

“I’m not staying,” she tells them. “I’m here to grab a few things. Then I’m going to Roan’s.”

Raven’s eyes narrow. “Wait. Are you two actually a thing now?”

“No,” Clarke says quickly. “We’re just friends. But I’m crashing at his condo while I search for another apartment.”

Silence floods the kitchen. Her roommates gape at her for a minute, stunned.

“Excuse me, _what?_ ” Raven demands.

“I thought about it a lot while I was gone,” she continues, forcibly calm. “I want to be able to move on. I can’t do that if I’m living here.”

“Bullshit!” Murphy cries. “You’re not leaving, Princess. No fucking way!”

At the same time, Raven snaps her head towards her boyfriend. “Did you put something in my food? Tell me I’m hallucinating!”

Clarke drops her head back, taking in deep breaths. This is about the reaction she expected from them. Emotions are high and they’re not going to listen to her. Not yet at least.

“Look,” she says, “it’s not like we’re not going to see each other at the bar and game night and like every weekend. We just won’t live together.”

“See, this is how it starts,” Raven snaps, jabbing a finger at her, eyes flashing. “First, you move out. Then, you get busy, stop showing up for drinks after work. Soon, you’ll have new friends and we’ll only see you for special occasions if you even show up.”

Clarke huffs. “That’s a little dramatic, don’t you think? I’m probably going to be in the same neighborhood. I’m not moving to Canada, Raven.”

“It’s happened before,” she retorts. “With other people’s exes. With Echo. You drift away and it’s not the same.”

“You’re right. It won’t be exactly the same,” Clarke concedes. “But I’m not going anywhere. I love you guys too much.”

Murphy holds her gaze, his unusually solemn. “Then don’t leave.”

Raven shakes her head to herself, muttering under her breath, “I’m going to _kill_ him.”

A sigh escapes her. “This isn’t just about Bellamy, okay? That’s part of it. But I’m doing this for _me_. I need a fresh start. You guys can understand that, right?”

The kitchen is quiet again. Clarke clasps her hands together so she won’t fiddle with them as she waits for their response, their acceptance. It’s okay with her if they aren’t happy with her decision at the moment. She hopes, in time, they’ll see it’s for the best.

Finally, Raven glances up and pins her with a stern glare. “Brunch. Every Sunday, Griffin. No exceptions.”

Clarke smiles. “Absolutely.”

Her roommate stands up, sets her plate in the sink and walks away, her ponytail swishing behind her. Still upset, but she’ll come around.

That leaves her with Murphy. Strangely, Clarke feels a tickle in her throat as she imagines saying goodbye to him as her roommate. He’s the one that took her in after she left Ontari’s with nowhere else to go.

He’s still going to be in her life, but it’ll be an adjustment. A hard one.

Clarke waits until Murphy raises his chin and demands, “How the hell am I supposed to prank you if you’re in a different fucking building?”

“I’ll guess we’ll have to get creative,” she jokes.

“You sure about this?” Murphy asks her.

She nods.

He stands up from the table and walks over to her. Clarke slides off the counter in time for Murphy to hug her. It’s a pleasant surprise. For as long as they’ve been friends, she doesn’t think they’ve done this.

The hug goes on for a while before they break apart. Clarke’s throat is squeezing with the threat of tears and she doesn’t miss the redness in Murphy’s eyes either.

“Aww, are you going to miss me?” she teases, sniffling.

“Fuck off,” Murphy grumbles, rubbing at his eyes. “It’s _your_ loss, Princess. Losing the coolest roommate ever.”

Clarke laughs wetly.

She heads upstairs to shower the plane ride off of her. Then she starts packing up another bag of clothes, extra toiletries, and some of her sketchbooks to take to Roan’s. Most of the books scattered around her room are Bellamy’s, so she returns them to the shelf in the living room.

She cleans up after she’s done packing, removing some of the dirt and dust that’s piled up while she was gone. Under her bed, she finds a forgotten pair of Bellamy’s boxers.

Clarke didn’t think she’d be the type to get emotional over underwear, yet here she is. There are traces of Bellamy all over her room.

Clarke starts a separate box for his things. The Polaroid of them that Harper took on Monty’s birthday. The box of condoms he stashed in her nightstand. All the notes he left her scribbled on the back of receipts and Post-Its in his messy scrawl. The princess crown keychain he bought her as a joke.

Tears spill down her cheeks as she fills that box. Every piece that goes in it is part of their history and it hurts like the pieces are being torn from her. Cathartic in the end, maybe, but the purging of him is purging a part of her too.

She sits on her bed and lets herself cry. When the tears stop flowing, Clarke wipes her face and carries the box into his room, leaving it by the door.

She has dinner with Raven and Murphy, sprawled across the living room watching movies and eating her favorite take-out. None of them mention it’ll be for the last time as roommates. It goes unsaid.

 

* * *

  

In the morning, Clarke has unanswered texts waiting on her phone.

 **Bellamy:** _i’m a dick._

 **Bellamy:** _i know i hurt you. i took it too far._

 **Bellamy:** _please let me fix this._

 **Bellamy:** _i’m sorry, clarke. more than you know._

For a minute, she’s tempted to respond. But then she remembers. The memories are all raw and painful, festering right at the surface.

She sees his mocking smirk in her mind’s eye, bending that girl over in front of him. And his furious scowl, eyes darkened by loathing, as he tells her to stay away from him.

She deletes his messages like she never saw them. Instead, Clarke calls the Mount Weather rehab center.

Abby isn’t allowed phone or technology access during treatment, with the exception of holidays. But there’s a kind nurse on staff that lets Clarke leave messages with her and relays them to her mom. Clarke tells Sophie to let her mom know she’s back in the states and wishes her a happy New Year.

When that’s done, she has one more phone call to make. It takes some searching, but Clarke finds Diyoza’s business card tucked in the back pocket of a pair of jeans.

She doesn’t know if her offer still stands. Likely Diyoza wrote her off after Clarke never called or sent her portfolio if she even remembers their conversation from months ago.

Clarke has to try though. She’s out of a job and she’s not going to let the opportunity pass her by again. She calls the office number on the business card and after being put on hold for twenty minutes, she’s finally put through.

“Charmaine Diyoza,” a voice answers coolly when the line clicks.

Clarke sucks in a sharp breath. “Hi, this is Clarke Griffin. We spoke at Azgeda’s auction dinner in November. At Gem’s.”

A long silence on the other line as Diyoza lets her sweat it out. “Yes, I remember. What do you want, Clarke Griffin from Azgeda?”

“ _Formerly_ from Azgeda,” she corrects with a wince. Might as well be upfront about that. “I wanted to know if you’re still interested in my portfolio.”

“So the old bitch fired you,” Diyoza says, shrewd as ever. “And now you’re asking me to be your saving grace. Is that right?”

“Yes,” Clarke admits. “I should have called before, I know. Honestly, I’m not a risk-taker. But I want this. More than anything. Please tell me I still have a shot.”

“Set up an appointment with my assistant. Then we’ll talk.”

She hangs up. Clarke is grateful Diyoza let her speak at least before she disconnected the call. That conversation lasted about thirty seconds. But Diyoza didn’t tell her no, not yet at least.

Clarke calls the mainline back, waits on hold for another fifteen minutes and takes the first opening that Diyoza has available. Friday morning at 9:15 sharp.

That gives her the time to prepare her portfolio. Excitement and relief wash over her. She has a good feeling about this. Meeting with Diyoza at that auction might turn out to be a godsend.

Around noon, Clarke orders a car to come to pick her up and take her to the condo. She told her roommates she was moving out today and would be back for her other things later. She chose a time when the apartment was empty so they could avoid a painful goodbye.

Still, Clarke gets choked up when she leaves her key on the kitchen table. She sees the list of House Rules on the wall written in chalk. A last glimpse of Bellamy’s coffee maker on the counter. Every step to the front door drags like she’s walking in wet sand.

Walking away from what you love is never easy. Clarke hasn’t learned any tricks to make saying goodbye hurt less, no matter how many times she’s done it.

All she can do is keep going and not look back. Resist the pull of the past, calling to her like a siren song from the place that she called home. There are ghosts in that apartment just like there were ghosts in Arkadia. She can’t let them haunt her anymore. She has to set herself free.

Clarke packs her bags and a few boxes into the car’s trunk. The driver shuts the trunk and rounds the car to get into the driver’s seat. Roan is at work, but she has a spare key to his place.

She opens the door to the backseat, about to climb in when she hears someone yelling her name. “Clarke!”

Her head jerks up. It’s Bellamy. His Jeep is parked crookedly across the street and he throws himself out of the car, running toward her.

Her heart leaps into her throat. The sight of him is unexpected, jarring. He wasn’t supposed to be back from his sister’s yet.

But suddenly he’s in front of her. Real. His familiar scent hitting her nostrils. It feels like the phantom she tried to leave behind, stored in a cardboard box, has clawed its way out, refusing to be forgotten.

And with the box torn open brings forth a confusing storm of emotions, all thundering inside of her, roaring loud.  Anger and hurt and longing and love.

“Clarke,” he calls again, out of breath, “What are you doing?”

She shakes her head. “You weren’t supposed to be here.”

His brown eyes stare at her, wide with disbelief. “I drove back as soon as Murphy told me. Clarke, you can’t move out!”

“It’s already done,” she says, jutting her chin. His words to stop her only succeed in making her blood simmer. “I’m staying with Roan. We can _fuck_ every night on his Egyptian cotton sheets.”

Bellamy flinches, turning his body away from her. Grimacing, he mutters, “I deserved that.”

“Yeah,” Clarke agrees coldly. “You did.”

Except it doesn’t feel gratifying to strike him back this time. Clarke is tired and battle-worn from their war. Her heart still bears scars that haven’t healed from their last go-around. She doesn’t want to fight Bellamy like he’s her enemy anymore.

“Not that it’s any of your business,” she continues, “but nothing happened between us. Not on the trip and not that night after I left the bar either. I told you before, I don’t sleep with people for revenge.”

He’s taken back, she can tell. His mouth slightly drops open before he collects himself, shame making his eyes drop away from hers, his brow furrowing.

“Well, you’re a better person than me. But even if you did, that’s your right. I never should have taken it out on you like that.”

Clarke holds back her own flinch, her fingernails curling into her palms and pinching the skin. She doesn’t want to talk about this. Not here and now, especially, but not ever. Her pulse throbs from fury and pain. 

Clarke knows she can’t truly move on until they’ve had this conversation. And she deserves answers to the questions that have plagued her for over a week.

“No,” she says, tears dampening her eyes. “You shouldn’t have. That _hurt_ , Bellamy. Just because I said I wanted us to be friends doesn’t mean I just stopped caring.”

The guilt and regret roll over him, gathering like dark shadows in his eyes. “I’m so sorry, Clarke,” he says, his voice cracking. “I crossed the line. I can’t even believe I did that to you. I fucked up. Bad. There’s not an excuse for it, but I was trying to get back at you.”

“Why?” She mouths the word, her throat wet and squeezing. “Because I told you to screw someone else?”

“No,” he says, the words coming slowly, reluctantly, wrapped in shame. “Because of Roan. Raven said you went to his place, stayed the night. I was upset because I thought it meant you were really doing it. Moving on.”

Clarke stares at him, uncaring to the tears that spill over and fall down her cheeks. She sees the tightening of Bellamy’s jaw, his hand twitching at his side like he wants to reach out and comfort her but he thinks he has no right to.

Tears gather in his eyes. He watches her cry, pain twisting his features. “I didn’t want you to move on,” he admits hoarsely. “And I handled it horribly. You didn’t want me anymore. So I proved that somebody else did.”

She understands. But the damage is already done. Both of them have hurt each other too much, made a wasteland of what was once sacred and beautiful. Their friendship.

“I’m sorry, Clarke,” he says again. “This is my fault. If anyone should be moving out, it should be me.”

Immediately, Clarke shakes her head, wiping at her face. “No. No one’s kicking you out. I want to go, Bellamy. I have to.”

She ducks into the backseat of the car before he can say anything to change her mind. Bellamy follows her, his hand gripping the metal frame of the door. His eyes are wide, frantic.

“Don’t do this,” he pleads. “You can’t leave. Clarke, _please_.”

Her teeth grit, bracing herself against him. This is exactly why she planned to move out when he wasn’t here. So she didn’t have to tear herself away from _him_. Be strong enough to resist when he tried to stop her.

“Don’t make this harder than it has to be,” Clarke murmurs. _Please_ , she begs him silently. “I need space. Away from all of this.”

Bellamy's wet, pained eyes bore into hers. "Away from _me,_ " he says. 

Clarke doesn't correct him. Yes, that is what she means. She needs to be able to move on away from this house. 

Her breaths come shallow. She feels the same pain he's in, piercing her chest like the sharp tip of an arrow. 

The wetness on his cheeks almost breaks her. “Let me fix this,” he says desperately. “I can fix it. We’ll go back to the way it was before, like you wanted, okay?”

She has to blink the fresh tears out of her eyes. “You _can’t_. It's not the same, Bellamy. I wish it was, but it isn't." 

His face twists when she says that and Clarke feels her heart being wrenched with it, a mirror of his desolation.

It hurts her to see him upset. She doesn’t want to leave like this. But she won’t lie to him either, just to wash away his pain.

“I don’t want to go back, Bell,” Clarke tells him honestly. “I want to move forward. Please, let me do that.”

For a minute, he doesn’t move or even seem to draw breath, his knuckles white on the door frame. Tears streak down his face. Clarke sees the force hit him, the realization that they’re really over.

She has to dig her teeth into her bottom lip so she won’t sob. She realized it before he did, but it’s just as heartbreaking now. She loves him. She wishes she had done things differently. Maybe a different choice would lead to a less painful road for them.

Maybe if they never crossed that line, they could have stayed friends and roommates. Maybe if Clarke had stepped back when she first noticed her feelings for him. Maybe, maybe, maybe.

Or maybe it was always going to be like this. Clarke has a hard time imagining a reality where she never falls in love with Bellamy. Hooking up with him didn’t make that happen. It was just one way of getting closer to him.

"I'm sorry," she whispers. 

Bellamy shakes his head. "You have nothing to be sorry for." 

His shoulder slump with defeat and he closes the car door.

Clarke doesn’t let herself look back as they drive away.

 

* * *

 

Friday morning arrives in a blink. Clarke has thrown herself back into her art, gotten back to drawing every day. She looks forward to the chance to make her living by creating her own art, the way she always dreamed of.

The Eligius office that Diyoza works in is about two hours outside of Polis in a town called Evergreen. She has to set her alarm for early that morning, hustling to get ready and catch the bus before it leaves.

She makes it to the imposing skyscraper building by nine, riding the elevator to the top floor. The Eligius office opens in a marble lobby. Clarke checks in with the receptionist and sits for a few minutes before she led inside to Charmaine Diyoza’s private office.

Nerves flutter like trapped butterflies in her stomach as Diyoza flips through the portfolio of her sketches. They start with the pieces she did as an art student at the University of Arkadia and extend up to the present, hopefully showing improvement.

When she’s done perusing, taking her time, Diyoza shuts her case. She peers up at Clarke through keen blue eyes that don’t reveal a thing.

Diyoza folds her hands on her desk. “Why did Azgeda drop you?”

The question catches her off guard. She expected something about her drawings, not her past employment. “According to my boss, I had too many family emergencies.”

Her eyebrow raises. “I see. Are these family emergencies going to affect your work with me, Clarke?”

“They might,” Clarke says truthfully. “My mom is in rehab for drug addiction. She’s doing well now, but that can change any moment. If it does, I’m going to be there for her to help her through it.”

She thinks she sees a glint of respect in Diyoza’s eyes. “Family is important.”

She flips a framed photo on her desk to show Clarke a picture of a little girl, her hair that matches Diyoza’s in pigtails. She’s smiling adorably at the camera, a front tooth missing.

“This is my daughter, Hope,” Diyoza’s explains, her voice warming. “She’s the only thing that matters to me more than my job. More than anything. As long as you’re upfront with me about what’s going on and don’t try to bullshit me, we’ll be fine.”

Clarke nods eagerly. “That’s fair. I know how to balance my professional life and my personal life.”

“We’ll see,” Diyoza responds and taps the portfolio case. “I knew you had talent, kid. This is the kind of art I want in my gallery.”

Clarke bites her bottom lip so she won’t grin. “Really?”

“Your art has _life_ to it. Real emotion and presence that gets my attention.” Diyoza allows herself a small smile. “We’re doing an exhibition next month at the Polis gallery. It’s for showcasing local artists in the community. There’s a spot with your name on it.”

“Thank you,” she gasps, breathless. “Thank you so much!”

Diyoza smirks. “Don’t get too excited. This isn’t a guarantee that anyone’s going to buy your stuff yet. You’re still unknown. But this will get your art on the walls.”

Clarke can’t contain her excitement even if means she won’t make a buck on the night of the exhibit. Real people in the community, professionals and art aficionados are going to see _her_ work on display. That’s the dream.

After their meeting wraps up, Clarke treats herself by heading to a nearby café on the block. She messages the groupchat her good news and warmth spreads through her at their positive reactions. Harper suggests going out to celebrate tonight.

Clarke suspects the celebration is also a hidden opportunity for them to re-connect. She hasn’t hung out with the group since before New Year’s. The idea of seeing Bellamy unnerves her. It still feels like too soon.

He hasn’t called or texted since she moved out. Giving her space. It’s what she needs, even if it isn’t what she wants. She doesn’t stop missing him. Going through every day with an ache deep inside her, a hungry emptiness for his voice, his face, his presence in her life.

During the day, she finds ways to keep herself busy. Art, yoga, apartment-hunting. The nights are the hardest, when Clarke is alone with nothing but the dark and her broken heart. She dreams about him night after night.

Sometimes, they’re the good memories. Clarke gets to relive the happy moments. She dreams of being in the tent when they were camping, touching his warm skin, feeling Bellamy close to her when she fell asleep. Or they’ll be lying on the couch on lazy evenings, her feet in his lap as Bellamy reads and she sketches, quiet and content.

Then, there are the nightmares. Reliving the dark days, the fighting, the animosity and fear that they have nothing but hatred now. Once Clarke dreams that he gets into a horrible car accident and the last thing she says to him are spiteful words she can never take back.

Clarke knows she has to get used to seeing him again. Be in the same room but exist apart. They’re friends with the same people and she’s not going to lose her found family just to avoid him.

She agrees to go out to dinner with everyone. It’s supposed to be a celebration for _her_ , after all.

Clarke extends the invitation to Roan when he gets home from work, since she is living under his roof. All the apartment listings she can find are out of her price range without any income, but Roan doesn’t mind her staying. He’s not at the condo that often, but when he does want to bring a girl back or invite people over, she goes elsewhere, to another friend’s place.

The situation isn’t ideal. The condo is nice, of course, but it is definitely Roan’s place with her there as a guest. Clarke wants her own space. She has her eye on a loft apartment listing and hopes her amateur art career takes off before someone else snatches it up.

Roan passes on going to dinner, having a date of his own. He taps on the bathroom doorway to tell her about it as Clarke is getting ready.

“You’ll never guess who I met at The Archer tonight,” he says, wearing a sly smirk.

The Archer is the bar across the street where they used to go for drinks after work. Located in the five-star hotel, the bar is more upscale than the low-key places Clarke likes to meet her other friends.

She can’t imagine Roan meeting anyone that interesting there. The Archer is typically populated by businessmen staying at the hotel or the residents of his building, which are a lot of older, wealthy couples.

“Who?” Clarke asks, painting her lips a berry color.

Roan’s smirk widens. He’s enjoying the mystery. “She’s tall, beautiful, and doesn’t give a fuck who any guy in that room was. My kind of woman.”

Clarke’s brows knit together. “Not ringing any bells here, Roan.”

“You haven’t had the pleasure of meeting her,” he says. “But you know her. Echo.”

She spins around to look at him. “Tell me you’re kidding.”

“Nope,” he says. “I bought her a drink, we got talking. I’m taking her out tonight.”

Clarke’s nose wrinkles. “Ugh, that is so weird. Please, wait until I’m _not_ here if you’re going to sleep with her.”

“You sure, Griffin? You don’t want to compare notes on Bellamy’s—”

She slams the bathroom door closed before he can finish that sentence. Roan laughs lowly on the other side. She hears his footsteps retreating as he leaves and Clarke shudders to herself. Gross.

Dinner goes well, considering the circumstances. Clarke sits on one end of the table and Bellamy sits on the other, talking to Miller and Bryan most of the night. Their eyes accidentally catch several times and every time, without fail, she feels a jolt like someone has struck her with electricity.

Clarke tells herself it will take time. Just as her scars heal slowly, her attraction and longing for Bellamy will fade. Eventually.

She has to withstand every pressing urge to talk to him, ask him about his students or what he’s reading at the moment. She can’t open that door, not even a crack. It will be too easy to get swept away in him again.

One misstep could cause another fight or a slip where she buries her hands in his hair and kisses him as hungrily as she does in her dreams.

They’re saying goodbye on the sidewalk at the end of the night. Clarke is going to Emori’s since the condo is going to be _occupied_.

Jasper and Monty are hooking as many people as they can into drinks at the Dead Zone. Raven has invited herself to Emori’s place for a girls’ night in, kissing Murphy goodbye while the rest of them catcall before she climbs into the passenger side of Emori’s blue Honda Civic.

Harper gives her one more hug and goes to stand by her fiancé, slipping her hand into Monty’s. And suddenly Bellamy is next to her, no more barriers between them. Her skin hums from his proximity. Too close, too close.

Clarke’s pulse pounds. An overwhelming urge to bury her face in his neck sweeps over her. She makes herself look at his jacket and not at him.

“Congratulations,” Bellamy murmurs.

She nods jerkily. “Thanks.”

Her hand slips on the door handle the first try, but she manages to climb in, put the glass in between them. Clarke’s head drops back, releasing a long breath when Emori drives away from the restaurant.

Raven twists around in her seat to glance at her. “You okay?”

“It’s hard,” Clarke admits, squeezing her eyes shut. “Harder than I thought it would be. I’m still mad, but…I _miss_ him.”

She feels Raven’s hand on her knee, squeezing in comfort. This is just the first night out. It’s supposed to be the hardest.

 

* * *

 

January flips by before her eyes, compared to the way the past few months of winter have dragged painfully. She can’t do anything for her aching heart, so she keeps her hands and her mind busy.  

Clarke makes the effort of attending local art shows on her own, getting to network and meet other artists in the community. Their skill and creativity humbles her.

She signs up for a more advanced drawing class, broadening her techniques. Clarke watches herself improve and her art starts to feel less like a hobby and more like a real, lucrative skill set.

Then, at the end of the month, she receives an envelope postmarked from her parents’ bank in Arkadia. The mail is left with the receptionist of Roan’s building, forwarded by Raven from her old apartment.

Clarke has no idea what it is, but she opens the mail and finds a check addressed to her from a bank account she’s never used. A _generous_ check.

She calls Mount Weather and thankfully Sophie is on shift that day. The nurse sighs when she begs her to let her speak to her mother. “Clarke—”

“It will only take a minute,” Clarke says, which might be a stretch. She doesn’t know. “It’s an emergency.”

Sophie sighs against, this time in resignation. “No good deed goes unpunished.”

Clarke thanks her profusely and then waits as minute until she hears her mom’s voice. “Clarke?” Abby whispers. “What’s going on?”

She explains what came in the mail for her as quickly as possible. Her mother isn’t as astounded by this mysterious check as she is. Abby sounds relieved. “Thelonious came through.”

“Mom, what are you talking about?”

“Your father left you money after he passed, honey. I should have taken care of it months ago, but well, my priorities were exactly right. I asked Thelonious to set up an account for you while I’m in treatment.”

“No,” she says, staring at the string of numbers printed on the check. “Mom, I can’t accept this.”

“Clarke, it’s _yours_ ,” Abby replies. “Your father left it for you. Of course he’d want you to have it. There’s no reason for you to struggle while you find another job.”

She could use this money to put a deposit on an apartment. The idea is tempting, having her own place, but it comes with a surge of guilt. Her mother is out of a work as well. She could use the money.

“I’ll be fine,” Clarke tells her. “You keep it. When you get out of rehab, you’ll have bills to pay and you have to support yourself—”

“ _Clarke_ ,” her mom cuts in sternly. “It’s our job to take care of you. Your father and I made this decision a long time ago. I’m taken care of. Jake saw to that as well. This account is in your name. Use it however you like.”

The line clicks. After a moment of shock, it makes Clarke smile to herself. This is her mother as she remembers her before the pills, before losing dad. Abby Griffin has to have the last word.

The next day, Clarke visits the industrial loft she’s had her sights set on. The interior is small compared to her last apartment, but beautiful with brick walls and several large windows lined up to let in natural light. The ceilings are tall and the floor space open, granting her creative license to decorate.

There’s a small staircase leading up to the mezzanine. The previous owner added a beaded bamboo curtain for privacy, which Clarke loves. Behind the curtain is the bed and just enough space for a wardrobe.

Clarke pays the deposit and first month’s rent in cash. She has no furniture other than a wooden canvas, but the loft is hers.

The account has enough money to keep her afloat for rent, bills, and food. She has to hang all of her hope on this exhibition going well or she can say goodbye to brunch and drinks with her friends for a while.

Over the weekend, Clarke enlists Harper and Raven to help her shop for decorating the apartment. Harper is thrilled to help, but she has to bribe her former roommate with spliffs she got off of Monty. They get Clarke an actual mattress for the bed, sheets and pillows, a dresser and a café table for her kitchen area.

The three of them have to sit on the floor, smoking and laughing at Clarke’s so-called apartment. Her books are piled up in the corner and her FUCK LOVE, MAKE ART painting is the only decoration on the walls.

“I don’t know,” Clarke says, exhaling smoke. “I think the minimalist look suits this place.”

Raven snorts, lying on her back. “This is such a sad, artsy-bohemian dump. It’s _perfect_ for you. The starving artist.”

Clarke yanks on her hair in retaliation and Harper laughs as the two of them playfully cat-fight. They stop only when the pizza arrives, which they eat out of the box.

“This is _so_ classy,” Raven mutters.

“Do you remember,” Harper says, already giggling, “when Bellamy moved in to your place and he slept on that air mattress for _weeks_?”

“Ugh, yes!” Raven turns her dark eyes to Clarke and explains, “On the floor in the middle of room, I swear. He refused to pay for a bed frame. The dumbass. We had to listen to him bitch about his back forever!”

Harper giggles again. “Until Miller got him one and had it delivered when he wasn’t home. Remember?”

Raven nods her head. “Yeah, I signed for it!”

It goes quiet after a moment. Clarke picks at the pepperoni on her slice, feeling the weight of the girls staring at her. Her eyes flick up when Harper winces.

“Sorry, hon. You don’t wanna hear about—”

“No!” Clarke waves her off. “He’s not Voldemort, okay? You can say his name.”

Harper’s voice is still gentle, careful. “You can forgive him, you know. If you wanted to.”

Raven snorts derisively, which makes Harper give her a quelling look. “Or _don’t_ ,” Raven says. “I wouldn’t be able to trust him after the shit he pulled.”

Clarke sighs, tossing her pizza crust into the box. “It isn’t about forgiving him. I already have.”

Harper’s brows raise in surprise. “Then why aren’t you guys talking?”

“I’m trying to get over him,” she says softly. “Move on from that chapter in my life. I can’t do that right now and be his friend. Not when I still feel…”

“Like you’re stupidly in love with him,” Raven finishes.

Clarke snaps her fingers at her. Exactly.

Harper is quiet, frowning to herself before she finds her words. Her hazel eyes regard Clarke curiously. “What if he feels the same way?”

“He doesn’t.”

“What if he _does_?” Harper presses. “What then?”

Clarke shrugs her shoulders. “I don’t know. I’m not sure it would matter. Raven’s right. He hurt me on purpose. Even though I understand why, that trust isn’t like it was before. I’m scared we’ll just hurt each other again.”

She glances at Harper thoughtfully. “Has Monty ever hurt you like that? Shaken your trust in him?”

Harper’s eyes turn away as she ponders to herself. “Yes,” she says eventually, a catch in her voice. “I’ve hurt him too, even though I didn’t mean to.”

“And here I thought everything was always sunshine and world peace with you guys,” Raven says mockingly.

“You know,” Harper retorts, “You’re starting to sound like Murphy.”

Raven’s eyes widen in horror. “Take that back!”

Harper grins at her and Clarke tries to get her to focus. “After that happened, how did you trust him again?”

“I don’t know if this will help your situation,” Harper starts, biting the corner of her lip, “But it wasn’t about blind faith that he wouldn’t hurt me again. Or that I wouldn’t hurt him. Neither of us could promise that to each other.”

“Then what _was_ it about?” Clarke asks.

“A different kind of faith,” Harper answers. “I trusted that if Monty really loved me, he would learn from his mistakes. And I would learn from mine. We would try to do better, _be_ better to each other. And when we make new mistakes, which we will in our marriage, I’m sure, we trust that we’ll always build each other back up. Not tear each other down.”

Clarke’s relaxed, happy mood is disrupted by the tears that abruptly sting her eyes. “Shit,” she swears, trying to blink them away.

“Oh, Clarke,” Harper gasps. “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean—”

She shakes her head. “No, it’s okay. It’s not you. I’m just a mess.”

Raven sits up, curling her arm around her shoulder. “No, you’re not. You doing better than when you first moved in to our place. _That_ was a hot mess.”

Clarke laughs a bit and Harper’s fingers gently clean her tears.

“What is it?”

“I want to have that kind of faith in him again,” Clarke explains. “I lost it. And I don’t know how to get it back.”

Harper lays her head on her shoulder and Raven’s hand strokes her back. Slowly, her breathing evens out, her throat no longer constricted.

Carefully, Clarke nudges them off of her. “Okay, enough about me! I’m tired of being sad. Let’s talk about your wedding!”

Harper’s face lights up at the mention of marrying Monty, brightening the dark loft. “There’s so much to do. We’re trying to decide on a venue right now.”

“I could see you guys getting married in a garden,” Clarke suggests, reaching for another slice. “Something outdoorsy.”

 

* * *

 

She loves the lighting in her loft. The afternoon sun spills in from the windows and Clarke basks in it as she paints, her canvas propped up on her easel.

The air is tinged with the scent of fresh paint and as her hand swipes the brush, her hips sway to the tracks of Space Oddity playing from her laptop’s speakers.

It’s been so long since Clarke has felt like herself. But she recognizes the person she is now, another version of herself, painting and listening to her favorite music.

There’s a knock on her door. Reluctantly, Clarke lowers the music and calls out, “Be right there!”

She has to wash her hands in the kitchen sink. Her shirt is splattered with paint and she has on ripped jeans, her feet bare as she crosses the loft to her door. Not exactly presentable, but Clarke doesn’t care.

She swings open the door and finds Bellamy, his hands in his jacket’s pockets. The tip of his nose is red from the cold outside.

“Bellamy,” Clarke says his name in surprise.

She saw him a few days ago at the bar, but they haven’t been this close to each other in forever. It makes her stomach dip.

For a long moment, they just stare at each other, taking the other in. It's weird what things you might miss about a person when they're gone from your life. 

Bellamy has still been there, technically present. But for the last month, he's only existed on the periphery of her life when he used to be at the center of it.

Now, her eyes greedily drink in the dark lashes brushing his cheeks and the soft curls falling across his forehead, trying to familiarize herself with him again. 

“Hey,” he greets, tugging a hand through his wind-swept hair. “Uh, Raven gave me your address. I hope that’s okay?”

“Of course.” She steps back to let him inside, hit by a whiff of his cologne. “I’ve been meaning to call you—”

Bellamy shakes his head. “Clarke, it’s okay. I get it.”

“No, I mean it,” she says firmly. His dark eyes dart up to hers, hearing her sincerity. “I wanted you to see the place. Let me give you the grand tour.”

She walks Bellamy in a circle around the loft, proudly showing off the upgrades she’s made. The floor-to-ceiling wooden bookshelf. The living room rug and black couch for people to have somewhere to sit.

He pauses to take in the art she has framed and pinned up, her own drawings. “Wow,” Bellamy murmurs. “These are amazing, Clarke.” He glances at her. “You’ve gotten better.”

The awe in his voice warms her inside. “Yeah, I’ve taken some classes.”

She feels a bit shyer when he wanders over to the bookcase. There are copies of the books he’s recommended or lent to her or even just spoken about. _Stardust. The Odyssey. Dante’s Inferno._ The classics among her favorite Jane Austen novels.

Clarke clears her throat a bit awkwardly. “Can I get you something? I have water. And beer. That’s about it.”

Bellamy looks up from the bookshelf. A ghost of a smile touches his lips. “You still don’t know how to grocery shop, do you?”

Clarke shrugs airily, allowing herself to smile back. “That’s what take-out is for.”

“I’m good,” he says. “I don’t plan on staying long, I just wanted to give you something.”

Her curiosity is roused, but she’s reluctant for him to take off now that he’s here. “You don’t have to leave,” she reassures him. 

Bellamy studies her for a moment, making her shiver under that intense gaze. He frowns to himself. “I think it’s better if we’re honest with each other, Clarke.”

Her brows crease together in confusion. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, you don’t have to be polite, pretend you want me to stay. You said you don’t want to be friends and I’ll respect that. I’ll keep my distance.”

“Bell,” she whispers, her voice cracking. “No, that’s—that’s not what I meant. I said that when I was still angry with you, but I didn’t mean to cut you completely out of my life. I just needed some space.”

Bellamy looks at her from under his fringe of curls, almost hopeful but not quite there. His shoulders are still heavy, the lines of his body defeated. 

“Do you think we could be friends?”

“I don’t know,” Clarke admits. “But I don’t want to be strangers.”

She hears his relieved exhale in the quiet. "Me either. I know I don't deserve your forgiveness, but—"

"Well, that's up to _me_ ," she cuts in. "Isn't it?" 

Bellamy's wide, dark eyes shine at her with a different kind of awe. Not at her artwork, but simply her. It's a look that could make a girl fall in love again. 

His voice is hushed. "You...you forgive me?" 

Clarke smiles softly. "I do. I want you in my life, Bell." 

He comes closer to her, cautiously like he's afraid she'll change her mind, and glances around the loft in consideration. “Did moving out here help you?”

“Yeah, I think it did,” she replies. The distance has been good for her. Just like being on St. Barts, she’s had space and time to reflect on _them_. “I know it sucked and I missed you guys like crazy, but if _we_ are going to try being friends—”

“We can’t live together,” Bellamy finishes. Finally, it seems like he understands why she had to do this.

Clarke nods. That close proximity in an apartment shaded by so many memories was stacking up their broken friendship against the impossible.

“I’m willing to try if you are. I want us to start over. Put the past behind us.”

She stills cares about him deeply. Still in love with him, too, but separate from that, their friendship is important to her. Living without him for a month has only proved how much she’s missed him. And Clarke believes under the hurt and destruction, there is something between them worth salvaging. Worth rebuilding.

She has hope, but Bellamy turns his face away from her, his jaw clenching and unclenching. Fear makes her pulse jump. She knows him though. She can see it isn’t anger that bothers him, but something else making him nervous.

Bellamy reaches into his bag and retrieves a white bundle. They’re envelopes tied together by a rubber band.

Clarke gapes at the stack in his hand. Her heart is racing. “What is that?”

He takes a breath before he explains, his exhale shaky. “They’re letters. You don’t have to read them. But I hope you do. I owe you the truth so…” He reaches out to hand the letters to her. “Here’s mine. Full disclosure.”

Her hand trembles, overwhelmed as she takes the stack. At the top of the first envelope, her name is written across in Bellamy’s messy scrawl. _CLARKE._

Curiosity burns up every other thought in her head at the moment. Clarke is suddenly consumed by the content in these letters. Bellamy’s letters to _her_.

“I want us to be good again too. More than anything,” Bellamy says. He curls his trembling hand into a fist against his thigh. “I don’t want to lose you, Clarke. Reading the letters might change your mind, but, you deserve the truth. And that,” he nods at the bundle, “that’s everything.”

Bellamy walks over, leaning in slowly to kiss her cheek. Her eyes flutter closed. She’d cling onto his jacket to keep him there if she wasn’t frozen.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs.

She doesn’t get the chance to ask what for. If he’s sorry about what happened between them or about what these letters say. The door clicks shut behind him.

 

* * *

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cried writing this chapter. Yes, I'm a weak bitch. 
> 
> This chapter got away from me and I had to cut some of it out and save it for the next one, unfortunately. But I _will_ try to have ch.16 out tuesday or wednesday if time lets me. So you guys can read Bellamy's letters.
> 
> There will be one more chapter and then the epilogue. Yikes. I'm gonna cry again. I love you guys and I love this story. ❤️


	16. More Than That

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys! This fic made it through Round 1 of the BFWA's for Modern WIP, Smut WIP and Angst WIP 😭😭 
> 
> I could actually cry. Thank you all so, so much for reading and supporting this story. You're all amazing! 
> 
> I hope this long update is everything you guys have hoped and waited for. This chapter was too important to me to rush, so I had to take some more time than I wanted to post it. 
> 
> We've made it to the Fluff Zone!
> 
> Enjoy ❤️

 

* * *

 

She slips the first letter out of its envelope and unfolds it. At the top, there’s a date written and it makes Clarke smile briefly to herself. Of course Bellamy would date his letters. The first is from the end of October. 

_—_

_Dear Clarke,_

_I write this letter with absolutely no intention of giving it to you. The thing is, this is for me. It’s so much easier for me to say things out loud than it is for me to write down my thoughts. This letter is just practice and me working up the courage to tell you my naked truth, to your face, the way you deserve to hear it._

_I’m in love with you, Clarke. My hand shakes as I write the words. I’m terrified to tell you. I don’t think you want to hear it. It’s hard for you to let people take care of you. You take care of everyone else. That’s what I love about you, but I know you, Clarke. I know a word like love makes you want to run. You don’t trust it. Love is bullshit. Fuck love, right?_

_I thought so too. But it’s not. We tell ourselves that so we feel better about being hurt by people we love. I didn’t want to feel like this ever again. But we don’t get a choice in who we fall in love with. It happens to us. I didn’t mean for it to; I swear that to you. I tried to keep things casual like we said. No strings. But that’s impossible with someone like you, Clarke._

_Because of who you are. Because you made me feel like it was a good thing when I opened up to you. I kept wanting to give you more of myself and have more of you in return. I am selfish and greedy. I want all of you._

_Getting to know you became the best thing in my life. Making you laugh was the highlight of my day. I couldn’t get you out of my head. Our sex is incredible, don’t get me wrong. But I love talking to you every day, laughing with you._

_I love when you tease me. I love that you cry watching Titanic even though you’ve seen it a 100 times. I love that goofy face that you make when you drink strawberry milkshakes and the way you turn your chin up when you’ve won an argument. I love that you always smell like charcoal and you draw everything that matters to you._

_I love you. I love you like I’ve never loved anyone before._

_One day, I’ll tell you. I don’t think you’re ready to hear it and that’s okay. I’m not going anywhere, Clarke._

_Love,_

_Bellamy_

_—_

Clarke has to set the letter aside so her tears won’t stain the page. This is a love letter. Bellamy wrote her love letters. Because he’s in love with her, has been for probably as long as she’s realized she loved him.

There’s no use crying over the past and what you can’t change. But Clarke cries anyway. Her throat hurts with it and her heart aches for what could have been if Bellamy had given her this letter three months ago.

Or if Clarke ever had the courage to admit her feelings. She’s wasted so much time running and pushing him away. She had herself convinced that Bellamy could never feel what she does. It seems unfathomable that she could matter that much to him, be completely hers like she was his.

They’ve both been _idiots_. As least Clarke is in good company.

There are more letters in the stack, but she can't stop re-reading the first one. Over and over.

_I’m in love with you._

_I love you like I’ve never loved anyone before._  

—

_Dear Clarke,_

_I swear I lost my mind tonight. You’re driving me crazy. And the worse part is, you’re not doing it on purpose. You have no idea what it does to me when someone else touches you like that. I finally get what seeing red means._

_I don’t know what came over me, the way I dragged you into that bathroom. I guess I’ve had my possessive moments before. With you, it’s different though. You’re not really mine, Clarke. Not like I wish you were._

_I had no right to be pissed about Roan. You say we’re only human and we can’t help that we have feelings. I feel the most with you. I swear you bring out emotions in me I didn’t know I had._

_What killed me was the way Roan makes you laugh._

_Maybe it makes me a selfish asshole. It probably does. But I want to be the only person that can make you laugh like that. Like the way you did when we joked about the auction. I said that stupid thing about the jewel thief and you made this surprised little “ha!” I love that sound._

_You did it with him too, when he whispered something in your ear. I guess that put it into perspective for me. I could lose you to him or anyone else._

_I don’t know how to make you happy. I hope I do. As crass as it sounds, I know how to please you. Sex is easy for us. We’ve always understood each other that way. It’s everything else that I have no clue about._

_I already told you how I failed my sister. I couldn’t help her. I don’t want to fail you too, Clarke. You’re too important to me._

_Love,_

_Bellamy_  

—

_Dear Clarke,_

_Looks like I’m writing love letters now. Only for you, Princess. Weirdly enough it does help me sleep, getting everything on paper. My mom said she thought I would make a good writer. Maybe she was onto something._

_You’re asleep down the hall. I wish you had stayed with me, but I get needing your space right now. It’s probably a good thing you don’t catch me writing this one. You’re not gonna like what I have to say. But if I don’t write it down my head might explode._

_It’s shitty of her, Clarke. I know you don’t see it that way. You would never hold it against her. You’re compassionate and I love that about you, I really do. But it’s bullshit that she’s putting you through this after you just lost your dad._

_It’s like she doesn’t think of anyone but herself. She left you alone when you needed her and now you have come in to clean up her mess. Put her back together. You’re not responsible for her. What about you? Did Abby ever give a shit about what you need?_

_Fuck. Maybe this isn’t helping. I’m just pissed now._

_This is a terrible love letter. I’m not a romantic. You probably know that by now._

_O disagrees. She thinks it’s romantic that I flew out here for you. Okay, maybe it is. I didn’t want you to be alone. I never want you to go through anything alone. You have me._

_Love,_

_Bellamy_

—

_Dear Clarke,_

_I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have lost my temper. Not at you. I should have kept my mouth shut. I never seem to be able to do that. I wish someone would have shut me up tonight._

_I made you cry. This isn’t supposed to be about me, but you should know that was the worst feeling in the world, Clarke. I’m a jackass._

_I never meant to hurt you, I swear. It all just came pouring out of me. I couldn’t stop it. But I should have tried harder. She’s your mother and it’s your business what you do with her. As much as it fucking kills me, I can’t tell you to stay in Polis._

_I was actually looking at apartment listings before I wrote this. That’s weird, I know. I just can’t stand the thought of going back to our place without you. I don’t even like this god-awful neighborhood but I’d move here if you let me._

_Pathetic, right? To you, we’re just best friends. You have no idea how much I love you. I almost told you earlier tonight. You were falling asleep in my arms. But I couldn’t do it. You’re going through enough right now. I didn’t want to make it about my feelings._

_Anyway, I was picturing us living alone in a two-bedroom apartment. Murphy would never let either of us move out here to Arkadia, but in my head it made sense._

_We could use the spare room as a place for you to paint. You could open your own studio here. I’d miss my kids at the gym, but I think I could be happy as a teacher here. Teach history or something. I’ve always wanted a dog, too. We could get one._

_What are you doing to me, Princess? They say love makes you crazy. I feel crazy right now. Crazy because I actually want that life. Or something like it. Falling asleep with you in my arms and waking up to you in the morning. I’d spent every day like that if I could._

_But fighting with you, that’s Hell. I’d do anything to make it up to you. I can’t sleep knowing you’re still upset with me. I hope you can forgive me._

_Love,_

_Bellamy_

_—_

_Dear Clarke,_

_You’ve just decided that we’re over. So that’s it, huh? You got one last fuck at the hotel and now you’re done with me._

_I guess this is karma for every girl I didn’t want to get serious with. And karma really is a bitch. I feel fucking pathetic. I wanted to tell you I’m in love with you, Clarke and you were just trying to get off one last time._

_It’s bullshit though. You and I both know it. You can call it whatever you want. Pretend we’re just friends. I don’t buy it. I know what we felt. I know it meant something to you._

_I guess I’m not good enough for you. Good enough to screw around with, but not good enough to date. You want to move on and find someone better._

_I wish I could. But as much as you piss me the fuck off, Princess, there isn’t anyone better than you. Not for me. I just want you._

_Love,_

_Bellamy_  

_—_

_Dear Clarke,_

_I didn’t think I would write you another letter. You’re not answering your phone and you’re not here, so this is the only way I can talk to you._

_I miss you, Clarke. I miss your voice. I miss watching you draw and sing under your breath. I miss you being…you._

_When I said that people hurt who they love, I didn’t think of myself as that person. I thought I was the one that got hurt, but I was wrong. I’ve done nothing but hurt you and I hate myself for it. I’m a monster._

_I saw the way you looked at me in the hallway. I broke you. I did that. There’s something worse than making you cry because of me and it’s breaking your trust. I don’t think you’ll ever trust me again and I don’t deserve for you to, Clarke._

_I ruined us. I see that now. I was so angry at you, I wasn’t thinking. All I cared about was hurting you the way I hurt. Who does that to someone they love?_

_I’m fucked up, Clarke. You were right to end things with us. I’m only calling to say that I’m sorry. You deserve to hear that from me. Maybe you finally realized that you hate me for what I’ve done. I don’t blame you._

_I just want to make this right. Tell me how, please. I’ll do anything._

_Love,_

_Bellamy_

_—_

_Dear Clarke,_

_You’re different. It’s like you have this light in you. I can see it when you walk in the room. I can hear your laugh. Your real one. I’m happy to see you happy. I know I’ve done a shitty job of showing that lately, but that’s all that matters to me._

_That day you moved out, you said to let you go. I didn’t think I could. I thought it might actually kill me to watch you leave. I knew it was over when you drove away. I don’t know why it took me so long to realize it, but I guess I still I had hope for us._

_It was selfish. I want you to be as happy as you were tonight about your art exhibit. I don’t want what happened with us to hold you back. If that means I can’t be part of your life, then I’ll accept that._

_I’m grateful for what we had, Clarke. I don’t think I can express what you mean to me. There were times in my life that I believed I would never fall in love. I never gave anyone the chance to get that close. But you changed that._

_For what it’s worth, I gave you all of me._

_Clarke, you made me feel worthy of being loved by someone again. I don’t know how or why you did it. But you looked at me and kept looking until you found someone worth trusting. I didn’t think I deserved to be trusted like that after I failed Octavia._

_I was supposed to protect her, but I failed. I felt useless. If I couldn’t help my little sister, then I had nothing to give anyone else. Just my body. Sex was easy and I didn’t have to worry about disappointing someone if I didn’t make a commitment to them._

_And then I met you. Everything changed because I wanted to be good enough for you. I wanted to be the guy that showed up when you needed him. I wanted to be the guy you moved on to, not the fling you moved on from. I wanted to be yours, Clarke._

_I still do. I’ll understand if our friendship can never be the same after what happened between us. I’ll carry that regret forever knowing that I screwed us up. But if there’s even a chance that you might forgive me, you deserve to move forward knowing the truth._

_The truth is that I’m still in love with you. I always will be. I’ll live with that if I have to. I’ll take whatever you are willing to give me if that means I can be in your life again. Just know that I’ll never stop hoping we can be more than that. I’ll never stop hoping you will give me the chance to prove I can be good for you._

_If your answer is no, then that’s okay. I don’t regret any moment than I’ve loved you, Clarke. You can keep these letters so you know you have my heart. Always._

_Yours,_

_Bellamy_  

_—_

Clarke doesn’t remember putting on shoes. She has no recent memory of leaving her loft, calling Bellamy only to get his voicemail or texting Raven to find out where he is.

Her heart is in the driver’s seat, going full-throttle, and the rest of her is just trying to keep up.

Clarke must have done these things in an out-of-body daze after reading the last of Bellamy’s letters because somehow she ends up on the street in front of the Dead Zone bar.

Her pulse is thumping a wild rhythm in her neck and her feet must ache from literally running the several blocks to get down here. But the adrenaline pounding in her blood keeps her from feeling it, from feeling anything other than the powerful need to get to Bellamy.

She couldn’t wait for a car or even wait for Bellamy to call her back. She has to see him.

Breathless, Clarke bursts through the doors to the bar. She must draw a few looks from her abrupt entrance. Someone, she thinks it might be Jasper, calls her name from their table.

But she’s only there for one person, her eyes combing over the room to find him.

He’s standing at the bar. His head turns when she storms in and their eyes collide.

Clarke knows what it feels like right then for time to stop for her, for them. Nothing else exists for her except for Bellamy and the words he wrote for her—beautiful, painful, honest words that bind themselves like stitches on her broken heart.

Bellamy must see it. He knows just by looking at her, the way he straightens up, a glint of hope in his wide, brown eyes.

Clarke runs to him. He’s ready when she jumps into his arms, absorbing the impact with his feet firmly planted on the ground. Her legs lock around his waist and she slides her fingers into his curls, drawing his face up to kiss him passionately.

Bellamy sighs against her lips. It’s a sound of relief, the same she feels in currents through her body. He’s smiling as he kisses her back, his hands gripping her upper thighs. Clarke clutches him to her just as tightly at first before she melts into their kisses, soothed by the familiar stroke of Bellamy’s tongue.

The need that thundered inside her thaws out with the realization that he’s here and he’s _hers_. The tension gathered between them like dark storm clouds have turned into the release of pouring rain. Their kisses shift from frantic passion into slow tenderness, like they’re welcoming each other home.

He’s still holding her up when Clarke breaks away, out of breath and murmurs, “I love you too, Bell.”

She hears his breath hitch in between them. Bellamy drops his forehead against hers. His grin is sharp, wild, joyous. “You read them?

Clarke mirrors his wide smile. “Every word. And my answer is _yes_.”

Bellamy laughs, a beautiful sound before she kisses him again. He moves so she’s sitting on the bar stool with him standing between her legs, her knees hooked around his waist. She keeps her hand fisted in the front of his shirt, not letting him get away.

Not that he’s trying to. His large hands slide up her body to cup the back of her neck, deepening their kiss. Bellamy swallows the moan she lets out, fused so perfectly she can feel him everywhere, from her lips and tongue to her toes curling in her boots.

Her pulse beats like a joyous drum and Clarke can’t hear a single sound, the world lost to her.

There’s just the heat of Bellamy’s body and the lightning in her veins, making every kiss electric. She missed this so much. Nothing makes her feel _alive_ like him. More aware of every emotion and breath she takes in his arms.

Her hips rock forward on their own, desperate for more of him. He’s hard against her and Clarke forgets where they are, who they’re surrounded by. It doesn’t matter. She needs him.

Bellamy draws away, licking his red, bitten mouth. He’s panting like she is, his eyes bright with happiness. His touch is tender as he tucks a strand of hair behind her ear.

“ _Princess_ …” He trails off, shaking his head in disbelief as he grins.

Clarke pouts, tugging on his sweater. “Why’d you stop kissing me? We have a lot of time to make up for.”

“We do,” he agrees, his thumb stroking across her cheekbone. She tingles from his touch. “But I want to do this right. As much as I would _love_ to take you home right now, we should probably talk first.”

The more air she draws in, her brain starts circulating again. Clarke realizes he’s right. It would easy to leave the bar right now and fall back into old habits. They deserve more than that. They’ve broken each other’s hearts for more than that.

The only way they will truly have that new beginning she imagines for them is by letting go of their past, all of their mistakes and their ghosts. First, they have to acknowledge that those things exist and then they can start to forgive them.

Clarke nods. “Yeah, you’re right. We should talk.”

Bellamy smiles, feeling her fever-hot skin with his hand. “Did you run here from the loft? Your face is all flushed, babe.”

“Maybe,” she laughs.

“Sit down,” he orders softly. “Catch your breath. I’ll get you a drink.”

He helps her slide down from the barstool. Her legs are filled with jelly as she walks across the bar to where her friends are seated and very obviously watching the show from their booth.

Clarke can’t get rid of her wide, goofy grin. There’s so much giddiness inside her it just bubbles over. “Hey, guys!”

All of her friends just gape at her for a long moment. Their reactions are mixed. Miller and Jasper seem to be in the middle of exchanging money. Harper looks ready to burst from beside Monty, who is smiling at her.

Raven smirks, tucked in her boyfriend’s arm, while Emori and Maya look pleasantly surprised, the latter of which is being polite and trying not to stare at her.

Murphy is the only one that doesn’t look up from his phone, uninterested. “Seen that already,” he mutters. “Caught the live show.”

Still smirking, Raven slides a glass of water toward Clarke. “Take care of that _thirst_ , Griffin, before you rip his clothes off.”

A few of them snort to themselves. Clarke isn’t annoyed, but she makes a point of crossing her arms and staring her friends down. “Okay, show of hands. How many of you already knew about me and Bellamy?”

“Wait,” Miller cuts in. “Knew that you were hooking up before or that you’re like ass-backward in love with each other?”

Clarke’s eyes narrow at him. “The _second_ one.”

Miller has the decency to look guilty as he raises his hand. Monty is equally sheepish while Harper is proud as she sticks her hand in the air. Her former roommates don’t bother participating since Clarke actually told them a while ago, but everyone else apparently knew.

“Okay,” she mutters. “What the fuck?”

“I only know because of Jasper,” Maya says, grimacing apologetically.

“Monty told me,” Jasper quickly throws in, selling his best friend out.

Monty pins him with a betrayed glare. “Thanks a lot.” He glances back at Clarke, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, I’ve known for a while. Bellamy sort of told us.”

“And by that he means,” Miller adds, a wicked gleam in his eye, “drunkenly confessed his undying love for you months ago. Where have you been, Griffin?”

Her gobsmacked expression makes them crack up again. She hears Jasper stage-whisper to Miller, “I _told_ you she didn’t know” and more money is reluctantly exchanged under the table.

Clarke has to pick her jaw up. “Why didn’t you guys say anything?”

Miller shrugs, speaking for the rest of them. “We were waiting for you two to stop being fucking idiots and work your shit out. Which, obviously you did. So, congrats!”

Bellamy returns to the table with her drink, his hand finding the small of her back. Clarke leans into him instinctively.

“You okay?” He murmurs, noticing her expression.

Clarke nods, reaching for the cold glass and taking a long sip. “Do you want to get out of here? So we can talk,” she clarifies, tilting her head towards their eavesdropping friends, “in private.”

He reaches for his coat, thrown over the back of the booth, and cries of protests erupt from the group when they notice them preparing to leave.

“Wait!” Harper says, leaning forward to catch Clarke’s eye. “You can’t just leave us hanging! What happened? Give us details!”

Clarke’s heart flutters when Bellamy helps her put her arms through his long coat. In her haste to leave her loft, she showed up her in just an oversized sweater and the ripped jeans she wore when painting.

“We’ll talk later,” Clarke promises her and winks.

She follows Bellamy out of the bar and pulls his coat tighter around her. The cold winter air is more unforgiving when she isn’t running on pure adrenaline.

His Jeep is parked down the block. They climb in and Bellamy quickly gets the heater on to help their shivering. A cursory glance in the mirror shows Clarke’s cheeks and nose are bright red from the cold.

Bellamy turns to her in question. “Your place?”

It’s awkward to hear him refer to _her_ place instead of theirs, but he does a decent job of hiding it. Clarke knows it’s weird for her. They haven’t spoken more than a few sentences to each other since she moved out.

Now that the heat of the moment has broken and they’re no longer making-out in the middle of the bar, their history catches up to her. Bellamy has only been to her loft that same day.

With a pang in her chest, Clarke suddenly remembers how disconnected they’ve been.

It was easy to forget when they were kissing, caught up in desire and happiness. Their physical connection is so naturally effortless. Like Bellamy’s letter said, that’s always been the easy part for them.

This next part is trickier. They don’t have a great track record of talking out their feelings for each other. Clarke is nervous about what going to her place is going to mean without the sex to hide behind.

Still, she wants this. More than anything. “Yeah. That’s fine.”

The drive isn’t long. Hardly ten minutes and Bellamy has Radiohead playing lowly in the background, but it doesn’t stop her from being acutely aware of the silence and every tick of her pulse. Her hands are clenched in her lap the entire time.

Bellamy parks on the street. He trails behind her quietly as Clarke leads them up the brick building. She unlocks the door and they enter the loft, facing each other in the dim light spilling in from the row of large windows.

Clarke hits the overhead light before removing his coat and laying in on the back of the black couch. She gestures for Bellamy to sit with her.

She can’t help but admire the sight of his long body reclining on her sofa, framed by the backdrop of her loft. He’ll fit here if she lets him take up the space.

Clarke clears her throat. “I want to start by apologizing.”

Bellamy’s brows shoot up in surprise. “You don’t—”

“Please,” she interrupts him, laying a hand on his knee like it’s still natural for her. “I appreciate that you don’t think I have anything to feel sorry for, but I do. It takes two people to screw up a relationship. I played a part in it too, Bell.”

He closes his mouth, silencing his arguments to listen.

“I’m sorry I never told you the truth,” she starts. “I lied to you. I told you I wanted to go back to being friends and roommates when that was the last thing I really wanted.”

“Why did you?” He asks softly.

Clarke fiddles with a loose string in the hole of her jeans, unable to look at him as an old rush of shame comes back. “Because I run away when I’m scared. What I felt for you terrified me. I was scared of my feelings pushing you away too if you found out.”

Bellamy shakes his head to himself, his brows drawn together. “And the possibility that I might feel the same _never_ crossed your mind, Clarke?”

“Maybe it did,” she admits. “But I then I would remember what you said. You didn’t want what we had to get complicated. It wasn’t a commitment of anything. I wasn’t sure you felt any differently.”

He lets out a long sigh. “Yeah, well, that’s on me. I didn’t try hard enough to convince you otherwise. I almost told you a few times, but…” His eyes raise to hers. “I was scared too. I’ve never had anything like we had. I didn’t want to risk ruining it.”

“Me either. It was too important to me. I thought if I could save our friendship, at least, then it would be okay.”

Bellamy scrubs a hand across his face. “I shot that chance to hell with what an asshole I’ve been.”

Clarke reaches out to squeeze his knee. “I get it. You were hurt. I would be too if you told me you wanted to move on. I _never_ wanted you to think you weren’t good enough for me. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” he says, covering her hand with his. “Even if you meant it, you deserve better than how I reacted. You can’t force yourself to love someone back. I shouldn’t have taken my hurt out on you.”

“It’s okay,” Clarke repeats, smiling slightly.

Because it is then. It feels good to talk about this, cathartic in its own way. Instead of outright lies and misunderstanding each other, they’re meeting on the same wavelength again. Bleeding out the hurt between them, little by little, with every acknowledgment of the truth.

“I shouldn’t have said what I did,” she continues. “I know you don’t use people. I know I meant something to you.”

“You meant _everything_ to me,” Bellamy replies with such sincerity that her throat tightens, losing her breath. “I loved you, Clarke. And I’m going to do better about proving that to you. I don’t want you to ever feel like I don’t care about you.”

He turns himself toward her, his stare piercing with the promise of his words. “No matter what happens between us, even if we fight or hurt each other again, you still _have_ me, Clarke. I’ll always be here for you, okay?”

Tears spill over from her wet eyes. Clarke can’t speak for a minute, moved by his conviction and how much it means to her. The darkest times between them were those days she doubted if he cared about her at all.

Bellamy squeezes her hand in his, waiting patiently for her to collect herself and nod.

“You too,” she says hoarsely. “I always cared, Bell. You don’t have to prove anything to me, though. I know who you are. I still want you.”

His eyelids flutter at her soft words. This is so much better, being able to make him feel _good_ instead of coming up with ways to get back at him.

“I’m going to do right by you this time,” Bellamy says again, his gaze blazing with determination. “I want to be the guy you see when you look at me, Clarke. I haven’t felt like him in a long time. I’ve just hurt you.”

“We’ve both made mistakes,” Clarke murmurs. “But we don’t have to let them define who we are _now_. I want a future with you, Bellamy. Not being held back by our past.”

He studies her in the quiet of the loft, awe returning to his eyes, and confusion. “I want that too. All I want is another chance with you. But how can you not hate me for what I did, how I treated you the past few months?”

He lets go out of her hand to tug through his hair, pulling at his strands as he says, “I broke your trust in me. We can’t pretend those things didn’t happen.”

“I’m not pretending,” Clarke says, shaking her head. “It hurts _me_ more to hold onto them. I don’t want to feel that way anymore. I’m letting them go, so we can have a fresh start and be better, together.”

Bellamy falls silent. She can see the demons haven’t been expelled from him completely. His guilt and self-loathing are clinging to him like dark shadows. Clarke hates that he punishes himself more than she could ever punish him.

“Bell.” Clarke waits for him to drag his eyes up to hers. “We won’t get a second chance if you can’t forgive yourself.”

His lips twist into a grimace, looking at her in askance. “How am I supposed to do that?”

“I don’t know. But I need you to at least _try_. You made mistakes. You can learn from them, instead of carrying the weight of them on your shoulders forever.”

Eventually, Bellamy nods. He might still blame himself for what broke between them, but she hopes he listens to what she tells him now.

The atmosphere between them is heavy, clouded by digging out their past and the wounds they’ve inflicted from their shallow graves. Clarke gets up from the couch to turn her coffee maker on.

She explains to his curious look, “It’s been so long since we just talked. Do you think we could do that?”

Bellamy gives her a small, relieved smile. “I think that was the worst part, not being able to talk to you. I missed my best friend.”

Clarke brings over two mugs of coffee for them. The mood is lightened by Bellamy’s playful disdain for her fancy Keurig machine, which is clearly superior to the antique he keeps at the apartment.

She curls her legs up under her on the couch, prepared with her steaming cup. “So, how are your students doing?”

As they catch up on what they’ve missed in each other’s everyday lives, finally they start to feel like _them_ again. Clarke finds her rhythm of teasing him, after toeing the edges at first, scared to cross a line and disrupt their fragile peace.

The hours flip by as they used to on the rooftop when they would talk about anything and everything. Bellamy catches her up to speed on his students’ progress at Grounders and getting close to his sister again.

In return, Clarke shares about the art classes she’s been taking and her steps to merge herself into the local art community. She glows under Bellamy’s praise of how brave she’s been, taking a chance on herself and going after what she’s dreamed about.

“I knew you could do it,” Bellamy teases lightly, twirling a strand of her hair around his finger. His eyes are soft, his cheek resting on the back of the couch.

“The exhibit’s in a couple of days,” she tells him, biting her lip. “Will you come?”

“Of course,” he answers. “Gotta support my girl, right?”

There’s a moment when Bellamy freezes. Clarke’s eyes widen back at him. She’s smiling like a huge dork and nudges his knee.

 _“Your_ girl, huh?”

“Shit,” Bellamy laughs, rubbing at his eyes. “It’s like 3 in the morning. Gimme a break, alright? It slipped out.”

“I don’t mind,” Clarke hums.

He sits up, reaching for his keys discarded on her glass coffee table. “I should go before I say something worse.”

Clarke stops him, sticking out her legs to trap him next to the couch. “Bell, I’m just teasing. I _am_ yours.”

He glances down at her, jiggling his keys. “We should probably revisit that conversation when you’re not half-asleep on the couch.”

She scoffs. As if a night of sleep is going to change her heart. “Fine. Have it your way.”

Clarke pushes herself to her feet to walk him out. She swings her door open and leans back against it, peering up at him from under her lashes.

“Don’t do that,” Bellamy grumbles. “Don’t give me that look.”

Her lashes flutter innocently. “What look?”

“You _know_ what look, Princess.” He smirks at her. “You’re trying to get me to cave and it’s not gonna happen. We’re doing this differently. I’ll stay the night _after_ I’ve taken you out on real, public dates.”

Clarke lifts her brow at him. “Is that the deal? I don’t remember agreeing to that.”

“That’s the deal,” Bellamy confirms, his smirk widening into a teasing smile. “Take it or leave it.”

“Hmm.” She pretends to think it over, scratching her nails lightly down his chest. Bellamy catches her wrist before it reaches his lower abdomen, shooting her a warning glare. It makes Clarke grin. This is going to be _fun_.

“If the deal includes _you_ , then I’ll be taking it.”

Bellamy leans in to press a kiss goodbye to her lips. Clarke hooks her arm around his neck before he can slip off too soon. With the teasing of her tongue, she manages to get Bellamy driving her back against the door, his erection hard between them.

With a groan, he tears himself away. Bellamy takes several steps back towards the stairwell. “Text me the details about the exhibit.”

Clarke smiles, too blissed-out and light-headed to taunt him again. “I will.”

 

* * *

 

The night of the exhibit at the Eligius gallery is one Clarke is going to remember for the rest of her life. There is nothing that can compare to seeing _her_ name listed as the artist for the work that frames the walls. She’s buzzing with happiness from the early morning set-up to the evening when the exhibit is opened.

There is an impressive turn-out for an amateur group of artists. Clarke is honored to have her work pinned up in the same gallery as some of the talented people she has met in the community, ranging from various ages and styles in their work.

Her self-critic tries to tell her she doesn’t belong there among them. Clarke hushes that voice. Diyoza saw something in her art worth presenting and she’s proud of herself for doing this, even if it doesn’t amount to anything. At least she put herself out there.

Her friends trickle in during the event. Roan swings by to support her, en route to another date with Echo. Her former boss claims it’s nothing serious between them, but as soon as Echo calls him, he smiles to himself and kisses Clarke on the cheek to go to her.

She’s happy for him, whatever it is they have, even if it’s a bit weird that her ex-something is dating Bellamy’s ex-something. As long as Roan doesn’t try for a double-date, they should be okay.

Raven and Murphy stroll in later, holding hands and bickering like an old married couple. Neither of them cares much about art, but they listen as Clarke gushes about her concepts and inspiration for each piece. Having them there to support her is enough.

In between her friends dropping in, Clarke speaks with the other patrons attending the exhibit, some of them are buyers and collectors looking for new pieces to purchase. Clarke just does her best to be charming and engage in discussions about her passion.

Throughout the night, Clarke keeps an eye on the door and checks her phone a bit obsessively, waiting for Bellamy to arrive. Her breath catches every time someone enters the gallery, hoping it will be him.

He said he’d be here. She has to trust that and not listen to the seed of fear leftover in her heart from their fallout. A part of her is still afraid of Bellamy hurting her again.

What if his resentment lingers from their fight or when she moved out and left him?

What if he feels too guilty for his past behavior and doesn’t think he deserves to be here for her? The questions beat at her brain in the quiet moments during the exhibit.

Clarke _wants_ to trust him again. But her desire can’t speak it into existence. That trust has to be rebuilt from the ashes, just like the rest of their relationship. She can only hope that Bellamy wants that too, wants it more than his fear or his past hurt.

Finally, Clarke sees him when he enters the gallery. Relief is sweet as it courses through her and brings a bright smile to her face. He came.

Bellamy approaches her, his hands tucked into his coat’s deep pockets. Standing only a foot away, he reaches out to touch her cheek with light fingertips.

His brown eyes are warm, soft. “Is that smile for me?”

Clarke nods. “I’m glad you’re here.”

His mouth curves back at her, pleased. It’s hard for her to think of anything else but kissing him right then.

Bellamy glances at the framed works behind her. “Let’s see what you’ve got here, Princess.”

She shows him each piece, preening just a bit as Bellamy listens, his attention fully on her. Her stomach flips because of it. That awed look is returning to his face and she is defenseless against him looking so proud of her.

Bellamy stays with her at the gallery until the end of the exhibit. Two of the pieces from her collection are purchased by buyers. The rest is going to be kept on display at the gallery, as part of her agreement with Diyoza.

Clarke is practically floating on a cloud when they leave, her mood only improved by Bellamy offering to take her out to celebrate after.

It’s after ten when they wander into an ice cream shop nearby. She lets Bellamy pays for hers and they sit at a small table, their knees pressed together.

“Is this one of the _epic_ dates I was promised?” She teases him.

Bellamy snorts at her choice of words. “No. That’s coming.”

She’s distracted for a moment by Bellamy’s tongue peeking out to lick ice cream off his spoon. Heat stirs in her core. Clarke glances up and finds him smirking at her in amusement.

“See something you like, Princess?”

Her own smirk forms as Clarke rubs his leg under the table with hers. “You know I do,” she purrs. “Don’t tease me if you’re not going to follow through, Bell.”

Bellamy’s eyes light up in recognition. He remembers what he said to her so many months ago, the night they went swimming together and this all started.

“I’m not teasing you,” he says. But his hand grabs her thigh, making her gasp in excitement before he squeezes to still her movement. “ _Behave_ ,” he warns.

“Or what?” Clarke taunts. She swirls her tongue around her spoon, relishing in the way his dark, hungry eyes track the motion. “Are you going to _make_ me?”

Her mind dances with the possibilities of how Bellamy could do that. She’s missed this game they used to play and his reactions to when she would purposefully disobey him, among other things.

With noticeable effort, Bellamy raises his stare from her mouth. She’s disappointed when he doesn’t play along, changing the subject. “So, how does it feel to be a published artist?”

They stay talking at the ice cream shop until closing time. Mostly about Clarke’s next moves in her aspiring art career. Bellamy has a lot of questions and she’s happy to answer them, enjoying their conversation even more when she gets to hear his opinions again.

Bellamy can be so passionate when he cares about something. Clarke has missed their debates too, getting swept up in their heated back and forth as they return to his car and he drives her to her loft. Judging by the gleam in his eye, she suspects Bellamy has missed going toe-to-toe with her just as much.

He rolls the car into park on the street. Clarke trails her fingers teasingly across his hand on the gearshift. “You want to come up?”

He shakes his head. “Not tonight.”

Her disappoint swells up again. Clarke frowns. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re trying to protect your virtue from me.”

Bellamy smiles enigmatically. “Are you free tomorrow night?”

She says that she is and he leans in to press a brief kiss to her pouting lips. “I’ll pick you up. Goodnight, Princess.”

Clarke huffs. If she had her way, Bellamy would be coming upstairs with her right now instead of saying goodbye, but she is intrigued about what a date with him will be like.

“Night.”

 

* * *

 

A long time has passed since Clarke has been on a real date. She didn’t really do this during her years in college, mostly hooking up and going to parties or hanging out in someone’s dorm.

Her last date with Finn was going to a carnival when he won her a plush deer. That was nice, but it still ended with them fooling around in his car. That was the most effort he put into the “dating” after he figured he won her over.

Nerves and anticipation have her buzzing all day, unable to keep still. Clarke cleans up the loft for something to do and changes her outfit about five times. Bellamy hasn’t given her any hint at what they’ll be doing, so she settles on wearing her quilted leather jacket over a grey sweater dress and tights.

She Skypes with Harper and Raven while she’s getting ready that evening, needing their company to settle her nerves.

Raven laughs at her fluttering. “What are you so worried about? He’s already seen you naked.”

“This is different,” Clarke insists, “We’re not just fooling around now. It feels…real.”

Focused on not poking her eye out with her eyeliner pencil, Clarke adds, “Like _you_ weren’t nervous about going on a date with Murphy?”

On her laptop screen, Raven shrugs. “We went to a basketball game and he bought me a hot dog. All of that frilly, first-date shit is for being who _haven’t_ already lived together.”

Harper laughs. “See, that’s why you and Murphy are perfect for each other.”

When her make-up is done, Clarke turns to look imploringly at her best friends on the screen. “Help. Me. I have no idea how to do this. What if we’re only good at the hooking-up part and not the actual dating part?”

Harper’s face softens with sympathy. “Clarke, honestly, you have nothing to be worried about. Bellamy _loves_ you. You’ll just be hanging out like you did before.”

Clarke nods along to what she’s saying, fiddling with her make-up that’s already put away in her bathroom.

Logically, she knows all of that is right. Bellamy has lived with her and been her closest friend for months.

He’s seen her both drunk and hung-over after puking the night before and not wearing any make-up. He’s witnessed her on her period, bloated and hormonal, when she only wears sweatpants and has fresh zits on her face. She’s cried her eyes out and sobbed in front of him.

She doesn’t think Bellamy holds any illusions about who she is. He knows her. 

“Seriously, Griffin,” Raven says sharply, drawing her attention. “What’s the problem?”

Clarke blows out a breath before she admits quietly, “I was such a _great_ girlfriend before that my ex cheated on me.”

“Hey, no, that’s not on _you_ , Clarke,” Harper argues softly. “Finn was unfaithful. That’s not your fault.”

She shakes her head. “Maybe a part of it was my fault. He was right that I was distant after losing my dad. I shut him out. And I…” Her breath hitches as she remembers what happened in Arkadia. “I did the same thing to Bellamy when he tried to be there for me. It’s something I do. It’s just easier to deal with things alone.”

Her friends are quiet for a minute. Clarke tries to put herself back together. She doesn’t want to be a sad, crying mess when Bellamy gets here. What a way to kick off their first date.

“Let me ask you something,” Raven starts. “You’re trying to start over with Bellamy, right? Not let what happened between you keep you from being together. So why can’t _you_ do that with yourself?”

Clarke’s eyebrows scrunch together. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, don’t shut him out this time. Be honest with him. Maybe you weren’t the perfect girlfriend in the past. But you can be better now, right?”

“Sure, in theory,” she says, smiling ruefully. “But _how_ do I do that?” She looks at them for answers. “What do you guys do?”

“I don’t let Murphy get away with any of his bullshit,” Raven answers. Then she shrugs. “He doesn’t let me get away with mine either. And we still have fun together. I’m not the best at being a girlfriend either, but Murphy _gets_ that, you know? He knows I’m trying for him.”

Harper nods in agreement. “Monty’s my best friend. I just try to be supportive of him, so he knows I’m always on his side, even if we disagree about some things. It’s a two-way street, though. I let him be there for me too.”

“You’re a great friend, Clarke,” Harper adds, smiling at her reassuringly. “You don’t have to change anything to be with him. Just trust yourself. You know you don’t want to shut Bellamy out again, so don’t.”

Clarke lets their advice and support sink in. She takes a deep breath and tries to exhale out her anxiety. “Thanks, guys. That did help.”

Her phone buzzes with Bellamy on his way, so she logs off from their Skype session and promises to fill them in on the details about their date tomorrow.

As she’s waiting for him to arrive, she pulls out her sketchbook to draw and distract herself. She wants things to be different this time too. To be as good for Bellamy as he’s determined to be good for her. Clarke wants him to have the best of her.

The butterflies in her stomach stir awake when there’s a knock on the door. Clarke jumps up to answer it, unable to hold back her grin. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Bellamy greets, a soft smile on his lips. His eyes sweep over her with admiration. “You look beautiful, Clarke.”

“Thanks,” she murmurs. “You look pretty good yourself, Bell.”

He has on a fitted, navy blue sweater under his jacket and dark wash jeans. She’s tempted to haul him inside by the lapels of his jacket and forget all about their date. The scent coming off his skin is intoxicating.

“You ready to go?”

Clarke snatches up her purse and locks the door behind them. Once they’re seated inside the Jeep and he takes off down the block, she asks, “So, are you going to tell me what we’re doing tonight?”

Bellamy’s mouth quirks, focused on the dark road. “That would ruin the surprise. You’ll like it though, I promise.”

Clarke hums. “And if I _don’t_ ,” she says, dripping with suggestion, “then I guess you’ll have to make it up to me.”  

He chuckles under his breath a bit wickedly and her curiosity blooms.

She knows as soon as the Polis Museum comes into view that isn’t going to happen. Hope flaps its wings inside her and she almost can’t believe that this is where Bellamy has taken her. She’s quiet, overcome, as he finds a spot to park in the alley behind the museum.

Bellamy fishes out a duffel bag from the backseat and Clarke can’t help but joke as she glances around the alley they’re standing in.

“Oh, _that’s_ the surprise. You’ve taken me out here to kill me.”

Grinning boyishly with amusement, Bellamy swings the duffel bag over his shoulder and reaches out toward her with his free hand. “Come on.”

His enthusiasm is contagious, but it could also be the fact she’s holding Bellamy’s hand that has her giddy. He leads them over to an unmarked back door and raps on it.

An unfamiliar guy in a security’s uniform nods at the sight of Bellamy and lets them inside. Clarke keeps her pressing questions to herself as they trail behind the security guard through the winding, empty halls of the museum. The place is empty at this late hour other than a few scattered employees.

They reach the planetarium. The security guard unlocks the double doors and Bellamy gestures for her to go first, stepping inside the large, vacant dome of the auditorium. As she’s looking around, Bellamy thanks the guy behind her and slips him money.

“Two hours,” the guard tells him gruffly. “Then I’ve gotta lock up.”

The door shuts behind him when he leaves and just a couple minutes later, the show roars to life above their heads. Music starts up from the auditorium’s speakers.

Clarke gasps as a booming voice speaks, welcoming them to the Journey to the Stars presentation. The narration dives into the beginning of the universe and the birth of the very first stars. Across the dome, space is suspended overhead and presented with such clarity and detail it is as if there are there among the stars.

Bellamy takes her hand again, tugging Clarke away from where she stood, frozen with amazement. He stops at the top of the auditorium, in the open space before the rows of seats. From the mysterious duffle bag, he digs out a blanket that he spreads on the floor.

Still overwhelmed, Clarke lowers herself onto the blanket without a word. She watches as he produces drinks, bottled ice tea for her, and sets them on the ground before he joins her. Her heart is swollen to capacity with affection for this man.

“You brought me to the planetarium for our first date,” Clarke says slowly when she finds her voice again.

“Yeah.” Bellamy glances up at her shyly from under his fringe of dark curls, clenching the can of soda in his hand. “Is that okay?”

“That’s…” She shakes her head, the words clumsy on her tongue. It’s the most romantic thing anyone has ever done for her. “Bellamy, it’s _perfect_. How did you…?”

She trails off, but Bellamy seems to understand what she’s asking. He shrugs like it’s nothing. “I remembered you mentioned it to Jasper once when we were hanging out. It sounded like you wanted to go there.”

“I did,” Clarke whispers. “I do.”

She can’t believe he remembered that. They had that conversation at the bar so many months ago, before Jasper and Maya had started dating. She never would have guessed then that Bellamy was paying attention to her date ideas.

“Good.” Bellamy smiles, relieved. “We can watch the show together. Lay back.” He nods his chin at the blanket.

She steps out of her ankle boots and follows his instruction, laying down on the soft, thick blanket he spread out for them. Bellamy stretches out beside her and lets Clarke rest her head on his shoulder, tucking his arm around her to hold her close.

Above them, there’s a breathtaking display of color as supernovas explode across the dome. They fall quiet, listening to the narrator describe the cosmic wonders of the universe.

Light flash with the stellar formations and Clarke finds herself turning her cheek, watching Bellamy’s enraptured expression.

After a few moments, he catches her staring. “You’re missing the show, Princess.”

Lightly, he jabs a ticklish spot on her side and Clarke giggles. She turns her eyes back to the dome to watch space and time expand with him. All the while aware of his warm presence curled around her.

The presentation lasts about half an hour before it reboots to the beginning. Clarke nuzzles against his chest as she notes, “We have this place to ourselves for an hour and a half still.”

“Hmm,” Bellamy hums. She can hear the smile in his voice. “It looks like we do.”

He rolls himself over her and swallows Clarke’s excited gasp with his kiss. Bellamy’s hand cups her cheek, the other tangling through her hair. Her legs part to fit him there, bracketing around his thighs as they taste each other, deep and unhurried.

Clarke slips under his sweater, feeling his warm skin, the planes of his chest and stomach, then around to roam up his back. Her hands are hungry for every inch of him she can touch. Arousal pulses between her legs having him so close again, his scent and kisses driving her wild.

Bellamy takes his lips in a teasing trail down her neck. Her head tips back to let him, shivering, and then her eyes open to the light show still playing from above. Clarke doesn’t need the exploding supernovas to feel sparks with him, but it does make for a romantic setting. 

Her dress gets pushed up so Bellamy can lay kisses on her stomach, kneeling between her legs. Anticipation rushes through her in a dizzying swirl when Bellamy rolls her tights down, his dark eyes flicking up to catch her reaction with interest.

“Please, Bell,” she pleads.

Bellamy kisses the outside of her knee. “Be patient. I’m gonna take care of you, babe. Don’t worry.”

Slowly, teasingly, he drags his mouth up to her thighs, pausing to suck at a mole he finds sexy and leaves behind a mark. Clarke tries not to squirm too much, impatient to have him where she needs him right now.

Finally, he peels her lace panties down her legs as well. Then Bellamy ducks his head, his breath fanning over her cunt and greedily inhales her scent.

“God, you smell amazing,” he groans. “So wet for me.”

Clarke’s body jolts at the first touch of his mouth. Bellamy’s hands splay over her inner thighs, holding her still as he kisses her, his tongue tracing her folds. He laps up the slickness from her arousal, gliding upward to lick her clit.

She moans, the noise lost under the narration. Bellamy pleasures her with swipes of his tongue, drawing the sensitive nub between his lips to suck at, then back again. Moans spill out of her, Clarke’s fingers curling into the blanket while heat blooms in her core.

It all feels so good. With her eyes half-lidded, she finds Bellamy peering up at her, hungry to watch her pleasure. Their eyes locked, he rocks his head from side to side, vibrating his mouth on her clit.

“ _Bellamy_ ,” Clarke gasps.

Her breath is stolen from her lungs, the pressure inside her heightening into an intense orgasm. Her head falls back again, mouth dropped open as pleasure ripples through her veins, hot and sweet.

She comes back down to Bellamy placing soft, kitten licks on her tingling pussy. A shiver wracks through her at the intensity. Her thighs attempt to close, but Bellamy doesn’t let her, his strong hands holding her open.

“I think you can give me another one,” he encourages her. “Come on, Princess.”

He dives back into her cunt, drawing more moans out of her, the flat of his tongue pressing on her sensitive clit. Clarke can’t hear the narrating voice anymore over the noises she’s making, drowning in pleasure. Her climax has been barely ended and she’s climbing up again.

Bellamy spreads her folds, his fingers slick with her wetness when he dips inside her. He curves them upward to stroke her sweet spot and that’s when Clarke really starts seeing stars.

Her thighs tremble with her impending orgasm. She reaches out to hold onto him, tightening her fingers through his hair. With her clit sucked and his fingers skillfully rubbing on her G-spot, Clarke is coming again within a minute.

She moans through it, careless to how loud she’s being. They’re alone in the auditorium anyway. Her fingers release Bellamy’s head when her orgasm ends and he sits up, brown eyes glinting, his mouth and chin drenched.

“Good girl,” he says, stroking a hand over her thigh.

Pride glows in her chest at his praise. Clarke has to take a moment to recover and catch her breath. She’s soaked in bliss, her legs still shaking.

Bellamy wipes his face with a small towel from the bag and her eyebrow arches upward, amused. “What else do you have in there?”

He smirks. “Snacks. You hungry?”

“Just for you,” Clarke purrs.

Bellamy grins at her answer. He reaches for his belt and her heart picks up again, licking her lip as he undoes his jeans.

Before crawling back to her, he retrieves a condom packet from the bag as well, but Clarke shakes her head not to bother.

He pauses, his brow furrowing. “Clarke—”

“I’m _sure_ ,” she retorts, leaving no room for doubt. “Now get over here.”

As they kiss, Clarke rolls his jeans and boxers down his hips, freeing his erection. Bellamy lets out a sound of relief into her mouth, feeling Clarke take his hard cock into her hand.

She pulls at him in long, slow strokes. His breath quickens as she fondles the tip, spreading his precome around with her thumb.

She watches his expression greedily, taking in the pleasured grimace. Her free hand reaches out to cradle his balls, then presses teasingly against his perineum. 

"Oh, fuck," Bellamy swears, his hips jerking forward. "That's good, Clarke, christ." 

His hand quickly replaces hers, guiding himself in between her spread legs.

Clarke lays back for him. She can feel her heart beating hard throughout her body, anticipating feeling him inside her again. That sting as her walls stretch to take all of him.

The warmth and fullness of his cock pushes inside her and Clarke sighs. So fucking good. 

Bellamy presses his lips to her cheek, nuzzles her ear and she shivers. “I missed you,” he murmurs.

Clarke opens her eyes. He’s bottomed out, but not moving yet, letting her adjust to him or maybe just savoring the moment like she is.

She brushes his curls back, meeting his deep stare. “Me too, Bell,” she says, her voice thick with emotion and kisses him softly.

They don’t stop kissing as his hips pull back, clutching at each other through the heated rhythm they build up. She grips his back, the muscles shifting under her hands as he thrusts.

That night Clarke discovers the difference in sex when you’re in love with someone and they’re in love with you, too. The emotional connection flares between them and makes everything, even the slightest brush of fingers, feel powerful and poignant.

“You feel so good,” Bellamy pants against her lips, voice strained. "Can't get enough of you, Princess." 

"Mmm, yeah, Bell," Clarke moans, dragging her nails down his back. "I love it. Give it to me." 

He nips under her ear, drags slow kisses down her neck, breathing her in. “I love you so fucking much, Clarke.”

A gasp escapes her. She’s stunned, her fingers twisted in Bellamy’s curls as he nuzzles her neck. The close-up stars beam in the dome above their heads. At that moment, she could burst wide open from the force of joy and love inside her.

The emotion pricks tears in her eyes. Clarke draws him into another passionate kiss so she won’t cry, focused on the heat of his tongue and his body on top of her.

His hips pick up their pace, fucking her good and deep. Her cunt squeezes around his length, making him groan.

She’s close. She aches to come again, this time on Bellamy's cock. " _Bellamy_." 

"I know, babe," Bellamy murmurs. "You're almost there, yeah? I can feel you. Nice and tight for me." 

He slips his hand in between them to touch her clit, moving in tight, firm circles. He brings her lovingly to the edge again, his words molten and husky in her ear.

“You look gorgeous when you come. That’s it. Come for me, sweetheart.”

With a cry, Clarke is pulsing on his cock, her orgasm sending her soaring again. Her nails dig into his scalp as she rides out the intensity of it, prolonged by Bellamy stroking her clit for her.

His face buries into her hair as he follows her into climax, hips jerking hard against her. Bellamy lets out a low, satisfied moan as he finishes and she feels the warmth spilling into her cunt.

For a while, neither of them move. Clarke is perfectly content with his weight pressed against her, his thumb caressing her hip and his warm breath stirring her hair. She blinks drowsily up at the dome, floating in her afterglow.

Eventually, Bellamy shifts. He lays a soft kiss on her temple before he sits up and carefully pulls out of her. Clarke pushes herself up onto her elbows, grateful as she takes the towel he hands her to clean herself up.

When both have of them have straightened out their clothes, they resume lying back on the blanket, cuddled up.

Clarke cups his cheek to kiss him again. “Thank you. This was amazing.”

Bellamy smiles fondly at her, pleased that she liked his surprise. He runs his fingers through her hair as they lie together. “Good first date, then?”

“The best.”

  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew! What do you think, guys? 
> 
> Kudos to those of you who called they'd go to the planetarium. That was always the plan for their first date and I'm so happy we made it here. There's just the epilogue to go now.
> 
> Here's my [tumblr](http://www.kombellarke.tumblr.com) ❤️


	17. Epilogue: And Now You're Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't express what your support of this fic has meant to me. Thank you guys for reading and commenting and seeing my baby through to the end. Thank you for nominating and voting in the BFWA's. So much love for you ❤️❤️❤️
> 
> Here's to the happy ending.
> 
> Enjoy!

 

* * *

 

Clarke wakes up to the scent of freshly brewed coffee and breakfast. She’s smiling before her eyes fully open. Although she prefers the mornings that she wakes up with Bellamy in the bed _with_ her, she doesn’t mind these either. Not as long as he’s here.

She didn’t expect Bellamy to hold true to his word about not staying the night at her place yet, figuring it was just talk, especially after they already slept together at the planetarium. But he does.

They go on several dates after the visit to the planetarium—out to Stella’s Diner and other restaurants, a movie night at her loft, meeting Octavia for lunch at her favorite vegan spot and then they walked alone through the shops, enjoying the afternoon together, hand-in-hand.

On Valentine’s Day, Clarke took over the date planning. She cajoled Bellamy into going ice skating with her at the rink, which they were both spectacularly bad at. Her stomach hurt from laughing so much and her ass was sore from falling down on the ice again and again.

Bellamy was hilariously grumpy about the whole thing, enduring her teasing about his “old man joints” on the way home. Afterward, they drank his special hot chocolate and made-out lazily on the couch.

That was also the night he stayed over at the loft for the first time. The morning was perfect bliss, waking up to Bellamy in her bed, his messy curls and scratchy voice. They barely left that bed all day, existing in their own private bubble of domesticity.

Now Bellamy has a toothbrush in the bathroom, a drawer of his own clothes, and half of the books on the bookshelf are his.

Clarke gave him a copy of a key to the loft as well. She was searching for something she could do, a gesture she could make, to show Bellamy that she’s in this with him. No running. No shutting him out.

The past three months together have been perfect. The honeymoon period. It will fade like everything else does. But Clarke isn’t afraid of what their future looks like. She’s sure about all of it—the fights, the make-ups, the big decisions ahead of them and the boring days in between.

Clarke climbs down from the mezzanine steps. She finds Bellamy in the kitchen area, standing bare-chested in front of the stove. He’s flipping pancakes on the skillet.

He turns, giving her that sleepy, closed-lip morning smile. “Hey, pretty girl.”

“Morning,” Clarke greets softly.

His eyes linger on her behind his glasses, running down her body in a slow caress. It makes Clarke’s cheeks warm. She’s only wearing one of his Henley shirts and it brushes the top of her thighs.

“I love you in my shirts,” Bellamy says, smiling fondly. “Come here.”

Clarke joins him in front of the stove, pressing up on her toes for a kiss. His hands cup her hips as she delves her tongue into his mouth. The coffee machine gurgling breaks them apart.

Clarke presses another quick peck to his lips before she retrieves the mugs. Her Keurig machine sits ignored on the counter since Bellamy smuggled his ancient coffeemaker from the old apartment. Raven has sent them numerous threats to bring the machine back, but Bellamy hasn’t given in. He spends most mornings here anyway.

Bellamy sets the plate of pancakes and syrup on the table while Clarke brings over the coffee. They move to sit at the café table, sipping at their drinks in the morning quiet. Watery grey light spills in from the windows and bathes the loft.

They have breakfast together, chatting in the time before Bellamy has to leave for work. These are her favorite mornings, the ones after he spends the night and she has some time when he’s all hers.

Some days they don’t have to talk at all. They’ll enjoy the morning together in comfortable silence as Bellamy reads the news on his phone and Clarke has her legs stretched out in his lap, watching the beautiful day rise outside the windows.

When she’s finished with breakfast, Clarke carries her plate to the sink and rinses it out. Bellamy is scrolling through his phone, but she gets his attention when she climbs into his lap and straddles him.

Bellamy laughs lowly as she smirks at him. He sets his phone down on the table.

“That’s better,” Clarke says, sliding his arms around his neck. She leans in and he meets her halfway for a slow, deep kiss.

She loves when they get to kiss like this, lazy and unhurried, just wrapped up in each other.

Chills break out across her skin from Bellamy’s rough palms running over her bare thighs. He slips under his Henley to hold her waist. She combs her fingers through his curls, their tongues brushing to taste each other.

They make out leisurely, enjoying the spare minutes they have before their day begins.

Then Bellamy pulls away, playfully bumping his nose over hers. “What does my girlfriend have planned for today?”

Clarke smiles widely. She’ll never get tired of hearing him call her that. “The girls and I are going shopping for bridesmaid dresses later.” 

Harper and Monty’s wedding is only a few weeks away. It’s the first wedding where Clarke has actually been a part of the planning, helping the couple pick out the food and made decisions on decorations. She can’t wait to see everything come together.

“Fun,” Bellamy says with a tinge of sarcasm. “And after that?”

“After that, I’m all yours.” Clarke presses a kiss to his jawline. “Will you come over? We can have dinner.”

“That depends. Are _you_ going to be cooking?”

She rolls her eyes at him. “No. We can order take out.”

Bellamy chuckles, stroking her thigh. “Sounds good. I’ll meet you here tonight.”

He stands up from the chair, lifting Clarke with him and setting her down on her feet. “I gotta shower for work.”

Clarke bites her lip, watching him take his empty mug to the sink and rinse it out. An idea forms in her mind.

“Hey Bell,” she says, getting his attention. “When you come over tonight, bring the rest of your stuff.”

Bellamy goes still. In the quiet that spreads between them, she can hear her pulse thumping. Her boyfriend gapes at her, his mouth parted open before he closes it and swallows, his throat bobbing.

“Clarke, what are you saying?”

“You know what I’m saying,” she replies. “I’m asking you to move in. Officially. It’s not like all of your stuff isn’t here anyway. And I miss you too much when you’re not here.”

Bellamy dries his hands with a dishtowel. He walks slowly over to the table, still slightly dazed as he takes a seat. His dark eyes study her, a pucker forming between his brows.

“I miss you like crazy too. But are you sure about this? I know how important it was to you to have this place for yourself.”

Clarke reaches for his hand across the table, interlocking their fingers. “Yeah, I’m sure. I’ve never been more sure of anything. This is your home too. With me.”

He lifts their hands and kisses the back of hers. His eyes glint playfully. “Hmm. I’ll have to think about it. I know what kind of a roommate you are, Princess. You can’t cook. You leave mugs of paint water _everywhere_. You hog all the hot water in the shower.”

“It’s a good thing you love me then,” she notes.

Bellamy’s mouth curves into a small, pleased smile. “Yeah, good thing.”

He leans across the table to kiss her tenderly. “Join me in the shower, roomie?”

Clarke smiles against his lips. “Smart. We can conserve hot water.”

A gasp bursts out of her when Bellamy scoops her up and swings her over his shoulder. Her laughter echoes through the loft as he carries her into the bathroom, kicking the door shut behind them.

 

* * *

 

Shopping for bridesmaid dresses is more of an affair than Clarke realizes. The girls wander in and out of bridal shops, searching for a dress that matches Harper and Monty’s theme and looks good on all of them.

After a handful of stores, they decide on a strapless, mint green dress. Harper gives her seal of approval and the four of them finally stop for lunch. When they leave the restaurant an hour later, Emori suggests a movie she’s been looking forward to seeing and they hit the theatre.

Clarke makes it back to the loft by evening. She hears voices from inside before she unlocks the front door. Bellamy is sitting in the living room with Miller and Murphy, a few beer bottles strewn on the coffee table.

She sets down her shopping bags on the counter. “How’d the moving in go?”

“Good,” Bellamy answers. “Until Murphy got distracted by his phone and dropped a box on my foot.”

Clarke winces. “Ouch.”

Murphy smirks, entirely unrepentant. “Not my fault I’d rather look at the pics Reyes sent me than _your_ face. Speaking of which…” Murphy pushes up from the couch. “I’ve got something better waiting at home.” He winks at Clarke on his way out the door.

Bellamy raises his brow at her curiously. “What was that about?”

“If it’s about Murphy and Raven, I don’t think we want to know,” Miller interjects.

Thinking back on what kind of photos Raven could take of herself in the dressing room, she’s inclined to agree with Miller.

“You don’t,” Clarke says. “Trust me.”

They order Thai take-out and eat with Miller to thank him for helping Bellamy move the rest of his belongings from the apartment. Over dinner, they joke about how long it will take Raven and Murphy to kill each other now that they live alone.

Bellamy guesses it will be a month. Miller is less generous, saying two weeks before they drive each other up the wall. Clarke thinks they’ll be fine. She does feel guilty taking their roommate away from them, but as Bellamy points out, it’s not like they can live together forever.

Miller takes some leftover cartons with him when he leaves for Harper and Bryan. When they’re alone, Clarke cuddles up to her boyfriend, laying her head on his chest.

“Do you feel sad about moving out?” She asks him. “It’s okay if you do.”

Bellamy runs his fingers through her hair. “I guess it hasn’t hit me yet. I’ll miss them, but honestly, I was more upset when _you_ moved out. Devastated, actually.”

His words make her chest ache. This is the hardest part of being honest with each other. Speaking their truths, even when it hurts the other person to hear it.

Bellamy doesn’t sound devastated at the moment, but guilt still churns inside her. Clarke remembers his begging her not to leave in front of the apartment building. She saw what it broke in him when she did leave. And that was only a glimpse on the street. She didn’t live there in the aftermath.

“I’m sorry, Bell.”

He kisses the crown of her head. “Don’t be. It was the right thing to do. And it’s in the past. Now, we’re here.”

Clarke nuzzles into his chest, inhaling the familiar scent. _Here_ is a much better place to be. Living with her boyfriend in their home. Happy and deeply in love.

“So, what do you want to do tonight?” Bellamy asks, nudging her. “I brought over some games. We could play Scrabble.”

She sits up on the couch, turning to face him with a smile. “Are you sure about that? You _know_ how competitive we are. It could get ugly.”

Bellamy leans towards her, a smirk on his lips. “Bring it on, Princess.”

Her night-in with Bellamy is more fun than the day spent shopping. Both of them are competitive and hate to lose. Though Bellamy mostly laughs in amusement at her trash-talk. They play a few rounds of Scrabble first and bicker over word scores.

Bellamy beats her every round, but she gets him back when they play Jenga. Her small, deft fingers are more helpful in this game than his larger, thicker ones. He knocks down tower after tower and growls in frustration.

Clarke bites her lip so she won’t laugh at him. His low growls make her stomach tighten, though, and her interest quickly wanes away from the board games. With Bellamy, it doesn’t take much.

She kisses his neck, feeling the tautness of his body melting away. Her teeth drag lightly across his skin. She nips and sucks at his throat until Bellamy forces her chin up to claim her mouth hungrily.

He runs his fingers through her hair, curling into a tight fist and pulling the strands just the way she likes. Clarke moans as he takes control of the kiss, her heart racing from the hot flash of arousal that shoots through her.

She pulls back to pant, “Take me to our bed, Bell.”

Bellamy hums against her lips in agreement. He picks her up bridal-style, standing with her in his arms, and carries her up the short steps to their room.

Clarke laughs in delight when Bellamy tosses her onto the bed. He grins at her before pulling off his T-shirt. She strips out of her dress as well and their clothes are quickly scattered across their bedroom floor.

Bellamy climbs onto the bed to join her once he’s undressed. Anticipation has her stomach fluttering. Clarke has lost count how many times she and Bellamy have had sex since last summer. More than she’s had with anyone else, probably and her desire for him still feels fresh and exciting like it’s the first time.

The memory of their first time together pops into her head, makes Clarke smile fondly as they kiss, all warm naked skin wrapped around each other.

Bellamy’s hands palm and squeeze her tits and she has her leg thrown over his, lazily rubbing against his hard length.

Bellamy chuckles. “What are you smiling at, babe?”

“Nothing,” she sighs as he rolls her nipple between his fingers. “I’m just happy we’re here like you said. I love you so much.”

Bellamy’s eyes soften. “God, I love you too.” He presses his lips softly to the top of her breast. “What do you want, Princess? I want just want to make you feel good.”

It’s impossible not to feel good when she’s with him. No matter what they’re doing, whether it’s reading on a rainy together or failing at ice skating or having slow morning sex, it’s always _good_. Clarke just wants to be with him all the time.

Heat stirs like hot embers in her stomach. His touch on her skin still makes her body buzz with electricity and her breath catch from how much she _wants_ him.

“I need you inside me. Just _you_.”

Bellamy fucks her the way she loves, filthy and deep, his hands clenching tight on her hips and pounding into her from behind. The bed creaks from the force of his thrusts.

His cock hits all the right spots inside her, making Clarke dig her nails into the sheets from the sweet intensity of it. Her loud moans echo through the loft, spurred on by Bellamy’s dirty talk and murmuring about how sexy she sounds for him.

She’s going to find bruises on her hips in the morning, purple-blue indents of Bellamy’s fingers that hurt so good for her to press against.

His fingers rub intently on her clit to send her shuddering into orgasm. Clarke comes pulsing on his dick, crying out Bellamy’s name.

She’s twitching and tingling all over from the aftershocks when Bellamy flips them over.

He kisses her deep and languid, holding himself still as he waits for her to be ready for him again. Clarke curls her fingers through his hair, floats down gently to the sweep of his tongue and her heartbeat slowing.

“So beautiful,” Bellamy murmurs and kisses her flushed cheek.

He gives it to her slow, driving her crazy with the roll of his hips. Her legs are propped over his shoulders and Bellamy nudges into her sweet spot on every other thrust, swallowing her whines with his mouth.

He ignores her throbbing clit until she is begging him to touch her, let her come again. Bellamy lets her orgasm build and it’s intense when she finally reaches that peak. Clarke’s back arches into the pleasure, her legs trembling on his shoulders.

She searches for Bellamy’s lips as soon as she comes down and he’s there, thumb stroking her cheek. They share another slow, wet kiss. He picks up on his thrusts and she tightens on his cock, fluttering and sensitive from her orgasm.

“Oh fuck, Clarke,” Bellamy hisses as her cunt clenches around him. “You feel so good, sweetheart. You’re gonna make me come.”

Clarke’s eyes flutter open to meet his stare, pupils blown wide and hot with desire. He’s captivated, watching her writhe and finish on his cock. The way he gazes at her makes her flush, pride glowing behind her sternum. Like she's the only woman in the world for him. 

“Come for me,” she urges him. “I want it, wanna feel you, baby, come on.”

His rhythm stutters and Bellamy tenses up, pleasure creasing his expression before he comes inside her. Clarke feels the warmth seeping into her cunt.

Her legs slip down from his shoulders and Bellamy rolls them onto their sides, flushed together. She feels his heaving breaths against her chest. His pulse is racing as fast as hers.

They lie together quietly, draped over each other as they soak in their afterglow. Clarke never wants to move, never wants to be parted from his sweat-slick skin. She could spend forever blissfully in Bellamy’s arms.

He plays with her hair spread out across the sheets. His expression is tender and open, beautifully soft with the curls falling across his forehead and his mouth curved in a small smile. 

She loves him so fucking much. 

Clarke smiles tiredly, leaning over to kiss his chest, over his heart.

"Come here, Princess." 

Bellamy tucks her against him and her eyes shut, cocooned in his warmth. At last, they sleep. 

 

* * *

 

Monty and Harper get married on a gorgeous spring day in April. The wedding is held at Monty’s parents’ house, an intimate gathering of friends and family. They transform the backyard for the occasion to match the simple, rustic theme.

Clarke checks in with Harper one last time before the ceremony begins.

She is the definition of the glowing, beautiful bride. Her hair is woven into an updo and braided with flowers. The dress is a delicate white gown with a tulle skirt and simple straps.

“Are you nervous?” Raven asks her.

Harper shakes her head, her smile luminous. “Just excited. I can’t wait to be Monty’s wife.”

Raven and Clarke leave her in the bedroom to join the rest of the bridal party getting ready to make their entrance. Before they reach the groomsmen, Clarke catches Raven discretely wiping under her eye.

“Oh my god,” Clarke teases. “Is Raven Reyes crying over a _wedding_?”

“Shut up,” Raven snaps. There’s definitely a sheen in her eyes. “Everybody gets sentimental at weddings. Don’t be heartless, Clarke!”

Clarke grins to herself in amusement. She makes her way over to Bellamy. He’s wearing a dark suit that he fills out amazingly well and a mint green tie that matches the color of the bridesmaid dresses. She can’t get enough of seeing him in a tux.

His hands find her waist as soon as she reaches him, drawing her into him. “Did I mention how beautiful you look today?”

“About a dozen times,” she giggles, tugging lightly on his tie. “Did _I_ mention how handsome my boyfriend looks in a suit?”

Bellamy leans in to nuzzle her cheek. “About a dozen times. Don’t get tired of hearing it though.”

“You guys are nauseating,” Murphy scoffs from beside them.

“Better get used to it,” Bellamy fires back.

Hannah Green calls for their attention then. The ceremony is about to begin.

They line up in front of the patio doors. Clarke links her arm with Bellamy’s and together they step outside, following the path of flower petals down the aisle. 

Clarke is starting to get choked up herself. It’s impossible not to. The wedding is beautiful and her heart is about to burst from joy for her friends. Walking with Bellamy down the aisle is just asking for her to get emotional.

“You okay?” Bellamy whispers into her ear.

Clarke nods, her throat squeezing with happy tears. His thumb brushes over her knuckles soothingly.

“Cry baby,” he jokes and that gets a wet laugh out of her before they part ways at the top of the aisle.

Clarke goes to stand with Raven, Emori, and Maya beside the wooden wedding arch. Jasper gives Monty a heartfelt squeeze before joining the boys on their side. The groom looks just as radiant as Harper did.

The march begins playing and everyone stands up from their seats, turning to see the bride make her entrance. Harper is smiling as she glides down the aisle, her eyes only on Monty. Her soon-to-be-husband is tearing up.

Clarke will bet there won’t be a dry eye at this wedding. Monty and Harper’s love for each other is so genuine and strong. All of their guests can feel it.

Harper’s father officiates the ceremony. He calls for Monty to start his vows and slide the gold band onto Harper’s finger.  As Monty makes his declarations to love and cherish her every day, Clarke’s eyes are drawn to her boyfriend across from her.

When she glances over at him, Bellamy is already staring at her, his eyes soft and warm. Her heart bangs against her ribs. It feels like she’s loved Bellamy for a lifetime, but they’ve been together officially for only three months. It’s too soon to be thinking about marriage.

Or so some might say. Clarke’s heart disagrees. She knows she’s going to spend the rest of her life with Bellamy.

The way Bellamy never looks away from her during the ceremony is overwhelming. The best kind of overwhelming. She can’t believe that this is the same man that was so against commitment when she met him. Then again, Clarke broke her rules for him too.

While her friends exchange vows, Clarke can only think of the words Bellamy wrote to her in his letters. He’s already made his own promises to her. So she lets herself fantasize about the day that she walks toward Bellamy at the end of a long aisle and takes his ring as another promise that they will love each other forever.

After the ceremony, everyone moves over to the white canopy for the reception. Clarke sits with her friends as they gush about the written vows and how happy Monty and Harper looked. The newly married couple makes their grand entrance as Mr. and Mrs. Green and they all cheer before the food is served.

Clarke has always loved weddings. She loves the unapologetic romance in the air, getting all dressed up for the occasion, and celebrating the magical day for the couple. Despite the heartbreak she’s been through, she’s never stopped being a romantic deep down.

Harper and Monty get the first dance to “More Than Anyone” by Gavin Degraw. Then the dance floor is opened to the rest of the guests. Clarke is fine enjoying her champagne and talking to her friends while the DJ gets warmed up with the Electric Slide and some oldies.

Eventually, the other couples start disappearing from the table. Jasper eagerly bounces off with Maya onto the dance floor, followed by Miller and Bryan. Raven and Murphy walk off hand-in-hand, though Clarke suspects there’s just going off somewhere to make-out.

She turns toward Bellamy and pouts. “Dance with me, Bell?”

Bellamy glowers at her, pretending to be put off by the idea. But there’s a telltale gleam in his brown eyes as if he could never refuse her anything.

“Five minutes,” he says. “And I’m all yours.”

Bellamy climbs out of his seat and slips off, presumably to the bathroom.

Clarke is a bit disappointed, wanting to dance to this slow song. She watches the other couples swaying while she waits for her boyfriend’s return.

“Iris” by the Goo Goo Dolls ends. Clarke’s ears pick up on the familiar notes of another song starting up. It’s “As the World Falls Down” by David Bowie. One of her favorites.

That’s when she sees Bellamy cutting across the floor towards her. He’s grinning proudly and she realizes where he snuck off to.

“You think you’re cute, huh?” Clarke shakes her head at him.

He takes her hand, pulling her up out of her seat. “You know you love this song,” Bellamy says as they join the dancing crowd. “And me.” He winks.

She does. She really loves him.

They sway together on the floor, the string lights hung around the canopy glistening around them and Bowie sings to them. Bellamy’s temple rests against hers and at that moment Clarke feels awed with how lucky she is to have him.

“ _We’re choosing the path between the stars. I’ll leave my love between the stars.”_

 

* * *

 

Before Bellamy’s birthday, Clarke calls Octavia and enlists her help in getting his present. His sister is thrilled at the idea and eagerly agrees to meet Clarke at the loft the next day.

They’re having breakfast when the knock comes. Bellamy gives her a confused glance, not expecting any visitors at eight in the morning, but he stands up to answer the door.

“O? What are you doing here?” He sounds pleasantly surprised, as happy as he can be, given the early hour.

Octavia smacks a kiss against his cheek and bounces past him into the loft.  “I’m not here for you. I’m here for _her_.”

Bellamy looks from Clarke to his sister in bafflement. He rubs blearily at his eyes. “Okay, that doesn’t really answer my question, O.”

“Hmm. That’s too bad.” Octavia reaches the kitchen and smiles at Clarke. Unlike the two of them, she is cheerful and wide-awake. “Is that for me?”

She picks up the coffee mug that Bellamy hasn’t had the chance to drain yet and takes a sip. Bellamy scoffs as he shuts the door and mutters something under his breath about her helping herself.

Clarke finishes rinsing out her plate in the sink. “Let’s get going.”

She and Octavia share a conspirator smile as Bellamy huffs loudly. “Get going _where_? Can somebody please tell me what’s going on?”

“See you later, Bell!” Octavia calls over her shoulder and slips out the door as quickly as she came in.

Clarke kisses him goodbye. “I’ll call you later.”

She leaves Bellamy adorably pouting behind her. His frustration is amusing and it will be worth it to surprise him for his birthday.

Octavia is bouncing on the balls of her feet when Clarke shuts the door and meets her in front of the stairwell. Her eyebrows raise in amusement. “You didn’t even tell him we were hanging out today?”

“Nah,” Octavia says. A wicked little sister grin curls her lips up. “He _hates_ being kept out of the loop. I figured it’s more fun this way.”

Clarke has to laugh as they exit the building. She’s glad Bellamy can have his sister back in his life to playfully torment him. He won’t admit it, but she knows he missed it.

They pile into Octavia’s VW Beetle and she drives them across town to the animal shelter. Excitement crackles between them as they walk inside and Clarke has a feeling whatever pet they adopt; Octavia is going to be a loving aunt to them.

A friendly employee greets them at the entrance. “Hi, how can I help you, ladies?”

Clarke smiles. “I’m here to find a dog for my boyfriend. It’s his birthday tomorrow.”

The young girl echoes her enthusiasm. “Oh, how exciting! Well, let me introduce you to some of the dogs here. They’d all be so happy to go home with you.”

The three of them walk through the kennels. Octavia falls in love with just about every dog they pass by. Bellamy has mentioned how much his sister adores animals and mourns the fact her apartment doesn’t allow pets.

As Octavia pets and plays with the dogs, the volunteer tells Clarke about each of them. Clarke tells her she’s looking for a dog that is housebroken and energetic enough that Bellamy will be able to run with them every day.

Clarke is trying her best not to get too attached to every sweet dog they see. Her heart already wants to take all of them home. But as soon as she lays eyes on the cheery golden retriever with big, brown eyes, Clarke knows she’s a goner.

“May I?” Clarke asks.

The volunteer nods eagerly and opens the kennel door for Clarke to step inside. The golden retriever leaps up and gets a laugh out of her when the dog licks her cheek.

“This is Picasso,” she explains. “He’s a really good boy. Only a year old. He’s been house trained and neutered. Looks like he already likes you!”

Clarke grins as she rubs at behind his fluffy ears. His tail wags back and forth. “I _love_ the name. What do you think, O?”

Octavia stands back outside the kennel, letting her have a turn with the dog. She’s smirking when Clarke glances at her. “A blonde dog with artistic inclinations? Yeah, I’d say my brother will be a fan.”

“We’ll take him.”

Octavia agrees to smuggle Picasso in at her place and let him stay the night. The plan is for the three of them to meet at the park the next day to give Bellamy his present on his birthday. She reluctantly says goodbye to Picasso and O before heading home.

In the morning, Clarke wakes up early to cook Bellamy his favorite—French toast. She thinks it comes out okay and manages to burn only _some_ of the bacon to a crisp. Clarke loads up the breakfast and a steaming cup of coffee on a tray.

Her boyfriend is sitting up in bed, hair ruffled and squinting when she carefully moves the beaded curtain aside and presents the tray. “Happy birthday, Bell!”

Bellamy grins at her, his eyes crinkled in the corner with genuine happiness. “Wow. You didn’t have to do all this, Princess.”

Clarke scoffs. “This is nothing.”

They eat their breakfast in bed, feeding each other pieces of fruit from the yogurt Clarke made for herself. She giggles every time Bellamy playfully nips at her finger. The whole thing would be disgustingly cheesy if she didn’t love every minute of it.

As soon as they’re done, Bellamy sets the empty tray and mugs on the floor. He pulls her on top of him, laying back on the bed and kisses her, tasting like the sweetness of maple syrup. He has on only a pair of boxers and she can feel him half-hard as she straddles his waist, kisses back slowly.

“Mmm,” Clarke tries to speak in between kisses. “We have to meet O at the park soon.”

Bellamy ignores her warning, his hands finding their way under her shirt to cup her breasts. His thumbs press on her nipples, moving around the hardening peaks in lazy circles. She moans into his mouth.

“Soon isn’t _now_ ,” Bellamy replies, sucking and biting at her neck.

Her hips rock forward against his hard length and time is temporarily forgotten when Bellamy works her panties off and tosses them aside.

Eventually, they pull themselves out of bed and into the shower. Clarke rushes him out the door, knowing Octavia is waiting at the park and she’s a bit impatient to see Bellamy’s reaction to his gift.

They find his sister tossing a small red ball to Picasso. It’s the only belonging he had with him at the shelter. After they finished the paperwork and adopted him, Octavia dropped Clarke off at a pet store to buy some food, bowls, and a crate—although she suspects Picasso will be sleeping in their bed.

Bellamy’s eyes widen when he sees the dog running around. Then he shoots Octavia a puzzled look. “I thought they didn’t allow dogs at your place, O.”

Hearing his voice, Octavia turns around and beams at him. “They don’t. This is your dog, big brother.”

Bellamy pauses. “What?”

When he looks over, Clarke is smiling widely at him. “Surprise! This is Picasso. He’s _yours_. Well, ours now.”

Octavia laughs in delight. “Happy birthday!”

She runs over and jumps on her brother to hug him. Bellamy is still processing, slow to put his arms around her in return.

Picasso bounds over to Clarke and leaps at her legs, not so differently from how Octavia just did. Clarke bends down to rub his head, still smiling as his tongue lolls out and his tail wags again.

“Picasso,” she says. “Meet your new daddy. Bellamy.”

The grass rustles under his boots as Bellamy walks over and crouches beside her. He touches her back, his voice low and warm. “We have a dog?”

Clarke turns her head to look at him. His eyes are wide, this time with excitement. She loves his expression, resembling a little kid on Christmas morning. Leaning over, she lays a kiss on his freckled cheek.

“We have a dog,” Clarke confirms.

They give Bellamy a chance to get to know Picasso. Clarke and Octavia move to sit on a bench, watching as Bellamy tosses the ball around and tries to teach him how to fetch. He’s not having much luck yet, but Bellamy seems too pleased to mind.

He laughs when Picasso launches himself at him and the free sound warms Clarke more than the sun shining down on them.

Octavia lays a hand on her shoulder, getting Clarke’s attention. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen him this happy.”

Clarke nods in agreement. “He said he’s always wanted a dog growing up.”

“It’s not just Picasso,” Octavia says, chuckling. “Yeah, that helps. But it’s _you_ , Clarke. You’re really good for him. I’m glad he met you.”

Clarke ducks her head, smiling to herself. Her words mean a lot. “Thanks, O. He makes me happy too.”

 

* * *

 

The dog adores Bellamy and Bellamy adores Picasso just as much. They all live together at the loft and although Clarke helps take care of him, it is undoubtedly _Bellamy’s_ dog. As Clarke had hoped, Bellamy takes Picasso on his run with him in the mornings and their bed is shared with him, curled up at Bellamy’s feet to sleep.  

Clarke is sketching on the couch one evening, petting Picasso with her free hand. Through Diyoza’s contacts at the gallery, she’s been receiving steady commissions for art and growing as an artist in the community with a few exhibitions. Monty helped her set up a website to showcase her work online and handle commission orders.

Keys jingle outside the door as Bellamy lets himself in, home from work. Immediately, Picasso leaps down from the couch and runs to greet him at the door.

Bellamy grins down at him. “Hey there, boy.” He ruffles Picasso’s fur for a minute, giving him his attention before he sees Clarke.

“Should I be jealous?” She calls out teasingly.

Still grinning, Bellamy walks over to her. He looks so good in his muscle shirt and track pants, a thin layer of sweat clinging to his skin from the gym. Clarke hums as he kisses her, inhaling the heady scent of him.

Bellamy drops another kiss on her nose before he straightens up. “Let me grab a shower before we take him out.”

Clarke latches onto his shirt. “Don’t. I like you just like this.”

He chuckles when Clarke sits up on her knees, tugging him back to her mouth. His hands find her waist as they kiss heatedly, rubbing his thumb into her hips.

Picasso’s impatient yelp forces them apart. He’s circling the door where his leash is hung up, waiting to be taken out on his evening walk.

She sighs. “It’s like having a baby.”

Bellamy’s dark eyes shine with amusement as he steps away. “Five minutes,” he tells Picasso, who sits down to wait like he understands.

While he’s in the shower, Clarke switches out the fuzzy socks she’s wearing for a pair of Keds. Part of their nightly routine is taking Picasso out on his walks together.

She waits for Bellamy to change and hooks Picasso onto his leash. The three of them descend the stairs out of the building, heading along their normal route around the block. Bellamy has Picasso’s leash and holds her hand as they walk, filling each other in on their days.

Their trek lasts about thirty minutes before they circle back to the loft. Clarke is ready to enjoy a quiet night in with her boyfriend.

She goes about heating up the leftovers in the fridge for them to eat while Bellamy feeds Picasso his dinner. Netflix is already queued up on the TV for them to watch later.

They’re curled up on the couch after dinner, lazy and comfortable. Clarke is engrossed in the show they’re watching, too caught up to ask Bellamy questions like she usually annoys him with.

She feels his stare pressing on the side of his face and turns her head. He’s watching her instead of the show, his face fond. His lips press together like he’s holding in a secret.

Clarke nudges him. “What are you staring at, weirdo?”

Bellamy smiles. “Let’s go for a walk.”

Her brow wrinkles. “What? Now?”

She’s confused as Bellamy disentangles himself from where they were cuddled together and stands up from the couch. He takes her hand to pull her up, falling a step behind as he crosses the loft to snatch his keys off the hook by the door.

Clarke slips her shoes back on, shaking her head to herself. “Did I mention how weird you’re being tonight?”

Bellamy shrugs, his mouth still curved mysteriously. “I want to visit the rooftop with my girlfriend. Is that a crime?”

“This is more exercise than I signed up for,” she mutters.

Bellamy slaps her ass as she passes by him through the door, making her squeal. He locks up behind them and takes her hand again, interlocking their fingers.

It is a nice night for a walk, not too cold out for spring. Her boyfriend is abnormally quiet, stuck inside his own head. Clarke can’t shake the feeling that something is off with him. She can’t put her finger on it.

They cross the several blocks to the old apartment complex. Just like every time they come by here to see their friends, Clarke gets a surge of nostalgia. This building holds a multitude of both good and bad memories.

The way up is familiar. They haven’t made the climb in a while, though, and Clarke is winded after the several flights of stairs to the roof. She has to elbow Bellamy in the gut for his cheeky comment about their sex life not keeping her in shape.

Bellamy props open the door for her. Clarke steps out onto the roof and heads over to the plastic chairs they sit at, claiming one for herself. He joins her, scooting his chair over until there’s no space left between them and she tucks against his warm side.

The rooftop is quiet for a while, both of them looking over the stretch of the night sky above them and the city spread out below.

Clarke traces absent patterns on Bellamy’s chest. She’s wrapped up in peace and happiness. It feels okay then to think about her dad, let herself remember the awful, bleak day of his funeral.

The day she met Bellamy.

She never would have guessed the angry boy on the rooftop would become her best friend and the love of her life.

Clarke used to come up here to escape and be alone with the stars. But that day everything changed. She met someone that she wanted to share the rooftop with, share everything with. 

“Do you believe in wishing on shooting stars?” She asks softly.

Bellamy’s lips brush against her hair in a kiss. “I know what I’d wish for.”

Clarke tips her head back to look at him. Her lips are already forming a smile. She's waiting for him to say something sweet, something so _Bellamy_. She doesn’t expect for him to shift out of the chair and drop to a knee in front of her.

Her jaw drops, the breath stopping in her throat. The rooftop is silent and she can hear Bellamy’s nervous inhale. She watches as he reaches into his pocket and retrieves a small, velvet box.

“Oh my god,” Clarke blurts. “You have a _ring_.”

Bellamy lets out a startled laugh at her reaction. “Of course I have a ring, Princess.”

He takes her hand in his, his thumb sweeping across her skin. His dark, gorgeous eyes gaze up at her and she can see the laughter in them, a reflection of her own joy.

“Clarke Jane Griffin,” Bellamy says, fighting a smile. “I love you so much. Will you marry me?”

Tears pool in her eyes and spill down her cheeks. Clarke didn’t think she’d be the girl that cried during a proposal. But she never thought she’d love someone as fiercely and deeply as she loves Bellamy. The tears are an outpour of her own happiness. 

She’s too overwhelmed to speak, only capable of nodding _yes_.

Bellamy breaks into a wide, ecstatic grin. He almost drops the box when opening it and she can’t help but laugh too, a little hysterically. She can't believe this is happening. 

Then she’s speechless again as she sees the ring cushioned inside the velvet. It’s perfect.

Bellamy slides the ring on her finger and then she’s throwing herself into his arms. The force knocks them back onto the rooftop floor.

“Ow,” he laughs.

They are both smiling too much to properly kiss.  

There are a lot of things Clarke could wish for. For her dad to live and meet Bellamy. For her mom to never struggle with her pill addiction ever again. For the people she loves to never hurt. A single star wouldn't be enough.

But if Clarke could only ask the stars for one wish, it'd be for nothing to change. She wouldn't trade the life she has with Bellamy. Not for the world.  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See you guys on the other side!
> 
> They'll definitely be more bellarke fic soon. And if you guys have requests/prompts or just want to say hi, my asks are always open. 
> 
> Here's my [tumblr](http://www.kombellarke.tumblr.com) ❤️

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you guys are as excited as I am. It's been a good week for our fam. Can't wait for 6.06 either!
> 
> Follow me on [tumblr](http://www.kombellarke.tumblr.com) <3


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